


Undefeated

by Fawx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Divergent, Illustrated Fic, Modern AU, Modern Kirkwall, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hawke of all trades, stealth exalted au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fawx/pseuds/Fawx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giselle Hawke fights her way through Kirkwall's streets, keeping one step ahead of ruthless debt collectors and vicious gang members. With the help of her misfit collection of felon friends, she keeps watch over Lowtown, fighting crime where the law dares not go.</p><p>An 80s action fantasy au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue Part One - Packing for Armageddon

Undefeated

Prologue Part One: Packing For Armageddon

-

_You’ll have to hear the whole story._

-

  
Not long before dawn, Lothering slept to the sound of sirens. It was an expected noise, a distant wail coming from Ostagar, rising and falling in time with the pulsing light of warfare that glowed on the Southern horizon. Even a hundred miles away, the sound was just barely audible enough to fill the cool night air with a ceaseless, uneasy mourning drone. As long as the sirens closer to home did not sound, however, the remaining citizens of Lothering slept more or less easily.

There had been assurances for days from the clean-cut news announcers with their clipped, deliberate, practical voices that the distant sirens were merely a precautionary warning. There was no reason to panic. An evacuation would not be necessary. Tune to any news station, any radio feed, and the King’s voice rang out with golden assurance that the forces currently stationed at Ostagar would quite definitively nuke the Darkspawn presence off the face of the planet. Without, of course - the King’s recorded voice would let out an indulgent chuckle - the use of an actual nuclear weapon. The worst case scenario depended on reinforcements, not weapons of mass destruction. Lothering would be safe, and in the morning the displaced citizens that had been evacuated from the neighborhoods outside the ruins would be returned to their homes, with little more than lost sleep as the cost.

Most news channels were happy to run the footage of His Majesty waving genially as he donned his fatigues and armor. Even in this day and age Cailan was of a singular mind to honor tradition: Like the Kings of Old, he too would face the Darkspawn on the battlefield, alongside his men. If this was considered suicidally insane by any newscasters covering the story, they kept that opinion under lock. Meanwhile independent news blogs posted long, scathing rants about the King’s flippant attitude towards what was easily one of the biggest disasters in contemporary history. There had been long centuries since the last Blight; it hadn’t quite been lost to memory, but the sudden sting of having the band-aid removed to reveal the pulsing sore still very much alive under the surface had every media outlet on Thedas twitching with the anticipation of blood-soaked job security.

It would be another hour before the news feed would cut to the choppy aerial video from one last, brave news chopper that had fled from the slaughter, only to crash among the few surviving soldiers fleeing the field. The flickering video would skip and glitch between scenes of battle and the sudden vertigo spin of freefall. The audio would not make it to the air - someone prudently decided that the cameraman’s screams - _The King is dead! Oh, Fuck, oh Maker, he’s fucking dead!!_! were not, at the moment, considered good television.

Jets streaked overhead, heading South in v-shaped formations, rattling windows as they flew across the dim greenish darkness above Lothering to the orange pallor of Ostagar. They passed over the small clutch of downtown skyscrapers, the long stretch of the freeway, sleeping neighborhoods of Lothering’s suburban outskirts, dark streets and silent houses - most empty, as the occupants had thought it better to get out of town while the getting was good, some still filled with sleeping families now used to the distant, constant wail of the emergency sirens.

They passed over a young woman who liked people to call her Hawke, vigilant on the front porch of her parent’s house, smoking a black-paper clove cigarette as she watched the jets leave vague vapor trails in their wake. She sat quiet as a Golem on the steps, guarding the front door as her mother and sister slept within.

A hundred miles away, her brother and a cousin she’d only met once were somewhere among the heaving crush of soldiers standing ready to face the Darkspawn oozing up from the Deep Roads. Here, she had arrived home only hours before, stepping over the threshold for the first time since not long after her brother had decided to go off to war. As soon as news had come that Lothering was in the path of the projected chaos, she had returned, hitching rides home from the few cars willing to head towards the warzone. It had been long days of exhausting travel, by foot and by car. The welcome had been warm, but dulled by the absence of her brother, and the looming worry of what might be.

_What will be_ , was the thought that plagued Hawke. As much as she hated the cold assurance there was no denying that her gut had never steered her wrong; especially when prophesying certain doom. _What will be. No matter what the news said. How long do we have to run?_

Long enough, she hoped. With the haze of fatigue threatening to cut her vigil short, she hoped to every God she could remember the name of that they would have long enough. Enough time to wake her sister and her mother, enough time to run.

Her mother had retired early and Bethany had eventually passed out on the couch, but Hawke kept awake. Exhaustion and anxiety had mixed their curious alchemy sometime around dinner, providing a second wind that had carried her long past midnight and into the small hours of the morning. One day, she’d look back on those few extra hours with bitter gratitude.

She’d cleaned. First the dishes from dinner, then the rest of the kitchen. The dining room, the living room, bathroom, everything had gotten a once-over. Not that the house needed to be cleaned, between Bethany and Mother the place hardly ever saw a mess, but she’d needed something, _anything_ to focus on that wasn’t the shuddering feeling she got whenever she turned her back to the South. But there was only so much she could clean, and around the fourth time she’d hauled out the vacuum to tackle an imaginary spot on the carpet, Bethany had gently taken her aside and simply… held her. For just a few minutes, saying nothing.

It had been enough to get her to abandon the vacuum, at least. But as soon as Bethany had left her alone long enough to think, that ice-in-the-intestines feeling had returned and she knew that there would be blood in the streets soon, one way or the other, and that come what may there was not a snowball’s chance in Andraste’s scorching boudoir that she was going to let any of that blood be her family’s. At least, the family she could defend; Carver and that cousin - Lukas? - were far from reach now, and whatever the news said, she knew that there was an even slimmer chance of either of those two getting out of that shithole alive than anything else. The thought sank its claws into the back of her throat and _squeezed_.

So, with no cleaning to do, she began to pack.

Little things, first. She’d gone to her and Bethany’s room, quietly yanking out drawers, arranging the bare necessities into small piles for each of them on the bed. Underwear, socks, functional bras. Two changes of clothes each. Sleeping bags, just in case. Hand sanitizer, tampons, minor medications, hair brushes, utility knives, rubber bands, twine, scissors, lighters. Hawke dug the spare packet of cigarettes she’d stuffed under her mattress - Bethany hated that she smoked, and would hate it more when she found out Hawke hadn’t quit like she’d promised - and put it in with her little pile. With the cigarettes had been a wad of cash; that she split evenly between the piles as well. There were no electronics; the Hawke family had learned long ago that the key to their safety was to live as far off the grid as possible. None of them owned a cellular device, and the one computer the family shared had rarely ever been used.

In the closet the sisters had shared were the heavy-duty hiking backpacks that had seen much use - for good or ill - during their childhood. She checked the first aid kits were stocked with all the basics - bandages, antiseptic, sutures and stitching material, chocolate, painkillers, three vials of a restorative potion and one ampule each of a potent Lyrium potion. One each wouldn’t cut it if they had to make a break from Darkspawn, however. She repacked the first aid kits and the rest of what she’d divided, then set the backpacks by the door.

That task completed, Hawke had crept across the hall to her parents’ bedroom. Her mother was asleep in the gentle arms of Prince Valium, fallen on the bed in a diagonal stretch, one arm over her eyes, the other clutching a sweater that had belonged to her late husband. Leandra’s quiet, drug-induced snore was the only sound in the room.

Hawke gently repositioned her and tucked her under the covers. She couldn’t bring herself to remove the sweater, instead resting a hand on it only briefly before she twitched the blanket over it as well. Then, she turned to the closet, removing one of the backpacks that had been stored there, and began to pack her mother’s things. Only the necessities now, best not to put in anything sentimental unless the worst really did come to pass, but the backpack would be ready. She belied this fact by taking another of her father’s sweaters from the closet, and carefully putting it away with the clothes she’d already packed for her mother.

She had left her mother’s room, then lingered in the hallway. Down further, just at the end, was Carver’s room. The door was open a crack, but the room had been empty for months.

Carver hadn’t waited for the Draft once word got out that another Blight - the first in something like four hundred years- was possibly working its horrible way up from the long-abandoned Deep Roads. He’d signed on with the King’s Army Reserves as soon as he’d gotten wind of the action. The ensuing row when he’d revealed his plans to enlist had been nothing short of stupid, in retrospect. What had started as genuine concern for her only brother - who was barely even of _age_ \- going off to war had ended with a petty squabble that she couldn’t even think about too long without feeling an embarrassed, angry flush creep up the back of her neck. In the end, Carver had enlisted, and Hawke had gone West to Redcliffe. Being a stubborn idiot was definitely a trait that ran strong between the two of them.

The hollow pull of his empty room had drawn her. She’d pushed open the door with a finger, glancing in sideways. The bed, dresser, and dumpster-recovery TV set were all in their right places. Over the few years they’d lived in the place Carver had plastered a good corner chunk of the wall by his bed thickly with flyers from clubs that still indulged the local youngsters with underage admission and free music. Hawke had often played chaperone, milling around by the bar while Carver and Bethany mingled with other kids their age, enjoying the freedom of being just another face in the crowd. He’d whined and complained about it, of course, and whined louder every time she had to keep him from getting into a fight, or out of one. But they’d all gotten home safe, and for each of those little victories there was a flyer plastered on his wall.

She’d hovered in the doorway, turning slightly to take in the rest of the small room. His desk had been left a scattered mess of left-behind pencils and stray pieces of paper, a book hung half-off the side to hold the place he’d left off reading. Hawke glanced at the cover. _Darktown's Deal_ by V. Tethras; a favorite she’d loaned to Carver months back, after Bethany had snatched it from her as soon as she’d turned the last page. Between the three of them, the spine had been broken, the pages foxed. The cover curled back from the rest of the book as it perched lopsidedly on the edge of the desk.

Hawke had picked up the novel, carefully holding Carver’s place with a finger. He’d stopped at a bad point; the hero’s back was up against a wall, with no help in sight in the middle of a deadly conflict. Of course, this being a Tethras novel, the hero’s wit and cleverness would win the day, at least until the next crisis loomed. She placed the novel back on the desk, just where it had been before. She hadn’t cleaned in here. Carver had done well enough on his own, and now that he was gone it was just another unnecessary trespass to do anything other than opening a window to let in a little fresh air.

There would be no backpack in his closet; he’d taken it with him to war. There was nothing she could do for him here. Hawke quietly backed out of the room, and nudged the door back to where it had been.

She went downstairs.

The TV was on in the living room, turned to low volume while Bethany dozed on the sofa. Hawke stopped to drape a blanket over her before going to the kitchen.

The pantry was stocked with the usual junk, and thanks to Bethany’s intense need for organization it was the work of just a few minutes to separate the road food from whatever would be too cumbersome to carry or too inconvenient to prepare on the run. Hawke piled boxes on the kitchen table: energy and cereal bars, pop tarts, trail mix, jerky of the beef, turkey, and tofurkey varieties. Sunflower seeds, mixed nuts, cookie and chip snack packs all went to the table as well. Stocked to her satisfaction, she set about separating everything into three even piles, unboxing bars and tarts, pouring economy-sized bags of seeds and nuts into smaller sandwich bags for travel. After the work of an hour, she packed each of the three piles into small bags of their own that could be snatched and stuffed into the backpacks at a moment’s notice. Emptied bags and boxes she tossed into the recycling.

With those tasks done, there was one more that required her attention. Hawke went to the small door next to the pantry that opened down into the low-ceilinged basement. She ducked down the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked, stretching out ahead of herself to pull the chain for the single light bulb that illuminated the little room.

There wasn’t much down there but for a washer, a dryer, and storage. Holiday decorations, winter clothes, the leftovers of a family who had, through much struggle, managed to settle in the house for more than a few short months before having to flee again. Once Hawke and Bethany had grown into their powers - and gained the necessary control to continue living freely with said powers - there had been little need to flee into the night due to an accidental spell cast at the wrong time. There had also been enough time in this house to set aside a small space for a few clever Apostates to hone their talents, and store the requisite supplies for spellcasting. These things were stored behind the rickety staircase, in a small shelf hidden behind a larger one, built by Carver and their father on a sliding frame.

Hawke had pushed the false shelf out of the way, revealing the smaller storage space. There wasn’t much there; it would have been extraordinarily stupid for any of them to try stockpiling any magical equipment. Lothering wasn’t particularly heavy on Templar Enforcement, where Apostates were concerned, but Malcolm Hawke had always advised caution of his children, and practiced it himself. After the early years of constant moving to avoid Templar scrutiny, avoiding any more of that business was unanimously confirmed to be an excellent idea.

Still, there were necessities. Composition notebooks filled front to back, written mostly in Malcolm’s neat, smooth handwriting. The newest volume was a mess shared between the two sisters. The handwriting varied from precise cursive on Bethany’s pages to nearly illegible chicken scratch (though she argued she could read it just fine) on the pages Hawke had filled. Next to the notebooks were the Herbals - one a dictionary of all herbs and their properties for use by Mages, and its twin being the same for strictly non-magical medicinal uses. Bethany got more use out of those than Hawke ever had; healing was not the skill of the elder sister.

Next to the Herbals was an old, old spellbook. Leatherbound, Malcolm had claimed it was an heirloom. The pale cover had been stained dark with blood in one corner, and there were pages that wouldn’t unstick no matter how many tricks the sisters had tried (Malcolm had forbade them from touching the book, when he was alive) and still sometimes reeked as though the blood had been spilled fresh. Hawke had her suspicions about the book’s origin, and those stains, but had kept them to herself, and her father had never offered an explanation. She knew his opinions on blood magic, and could infer enough on her own without having to dig. Whatever reason her father had for keeping a book like that, it must have been a sound one.

The rest of the shelves were stocked with smaller things - a few scrying stones, crystals, little tools for magical workings. Dried herbs and compounding materials for small scale potions and spells. And then, there were the shot bottles.

There was something of a boom black market for Lyrium, among Apostates. While the stuff was readily available at specialized retailers for reasonable prices, only Mages registered with the local Circle had the clearance to purchase any. All of those retailers, of course, were Chantry controlled and often had at least one Templar on staff. Identification cards scanned at the register showed the Mage was an approved, Harrowed Mage of the Circle and the transaction would take. Unharrowed apprentices weren’t even let out of the Circle Tower, and thus had no reason to be buying Lyrium at an outside retailer. Should anyone else attempt to make a purchase, the store would refuse the sale, and the Templar on Duty would then take their duty _seriously_. No intelligent Apostate would just walk in to the local Apothecary for a potion.

An intelligent Apostate _would_ , however, would know that there were plenty of shops that sold energy drinks in tiny little plastic shot bottles, and would know that the right shops would have a shelf of those little bottles with expired labels behind the counter. Little bottles whose seals had already been broken, contents emptied, and then refilled with refined Lyrium potion of varying potencies. Ask for a Ginkgo energy shot and you’d get a bottle from the front counter. Ask for the _blue-leaf_ Ginkgo energy shot, and the knowledgeable shopkeep would reach to that special shelf, and you’d be paying right out the nose for those tiny little shots.

There were ten arranged on the shelf; each had cost as much as two of the larger first aid ampules that she’d packed into the kits upstairs. Hawke had quietly sent up more than one prayer of thanks that Lyrium potions were nonperishable over the years, and this was again one of those times.

The potions went into two bags, one with seven, to go to Bethany, the other with three for herself. If they had to run, if they had to fight, Hawke could do so well enough without needing to rely on magic. Bethany was a firebrand, but also would need to heal for them, if things got rough. If she ran out of mana at a crucial moment… well, best to make sure that didn’t happen.

The crystals and herbs would have to stay behind, along with most of the tools. The scrying stones and mirror could stay as well - Hawke could use a cracked compact just as well as the ornate, silver-backed piece that had been a birthday gift. Beautiful, cherished, but if she broke it while fleeing Darkspawn she’d feel worse than leaving it behind for some future urban spelunker to perhaps get use of.

She thought twice about the herbs, grabbing a fistful of dried elfroot and packing that in with the bottles. Then she turned her attention to the books.

The notebooks wouldn’t be difficult to carry, so they would be packed up. The Herbals would stay - they were heavy hard-back textbooks, and had no real practical value. The leatherbound tome, however… that would have to come with as well. It would be a gamble carrying it; getting caught with a book that had one _whiff_ of blood magic about it was a get into jail free card on the best terms, and a quick trip to Andraste’s arms at worst. Still, taking it with was better than risking it falling into the hands of someone that would actually use it.

Hawke had then tucked the tome and notebooks under her arm, gave the shelves one more once-over, then slid the false shelf back into place. Gathering up the potions and elfroot, she then clicked off the light, and ascended the stairs again.

The books and potions were set with the provisions she’d organized on the kitchen table. She leaned back from the table to peer into the living room. Bethany was still fast asleep on the couch. The TV had switched to a commercial advertising special Mabari dental bones. The clock on the wall near the sofa ticked itself to just past three AM.

She again went over what she’d gathered. Food, clothes, medicine… anything that could easily be carried along in a hurry. She’d brought plenty of cash with her from Redcliffe; with the savings from under her mattress it would be enough to set them up somewhere for at least a month. Anything else would be tied up in her mother’s bank account. Everything was more or less in readiness; all she had to do now was pack the backpacks with what she’d separated out. If it was necessary.

_Maker. Please. Don’t let it be necessary._

There was nothing left to do but wait. Hawke had drifted around the house anyway, sometimes lingering next to the sofa, watching the looping news reports of the army’s march on Ostagar. They were confident that the campaign would be successful; Loghain’s forces would soon be arriving to provide necessary backup to the main body of the army already stationed in the ruined parts of the ruined city. Air support from Redcliffe would suppress any movement from the Kokari Wilds National Forest. The protests that the land those jets would be firebombing were protected Dalish reservations had dried up weeks ago, with no Dalish to represent themselves and carry the protests further.

She’d gone back up to check on her mother, still sound asleep under the covers.

She’d grabbed the backpacks and stuffed them full of the provisions she’d gathered.

She’d climbed under her bed, and Bethany’s, pulling out the long-handled tactical riot spears that they used as staves, checked the edges on the spearheads, and put them with the backpacks.

She’d pulled the gun from its lockbox in her father’s desk, then packed it away in her mother’s bag.

She’d paced the house again.

And again.

And then, finally, she’d fished the pack of cigarettes out of her backpack and gone to the front porch to watch the Southern sky.

She smoked in silence, listening. Waiting in the small hours before dawn.

-


	2. Prologue Part 2 - Sirens in the Night

**Prologue Part Two: Sirens in the Night**

** **

Noise woke in the darkness.

At first, Hawke wasn’t entirely sure what she was hearing. It started as a low groan, picking up slowly, shuddering through the quiet neighborhood like a wounded animal wandered in from the Wilds. Then it picked up speed, the sound galloping, screaming overhead and then she realized with a sudden, sick drop in her stomach… the sirens. Local. Emergency Services had activated the warning sirens.

Hawke leaped to her feet. A few lights flickered on in the other houses. From behind her, she could hear Bethany calling out for her.

“Front porch!” She shouted back, then took one final drag and flicked the cigarette out into the street. Exhaling a cloud, she dashed into the house, nearly colliding with Bethany. She grabbed her sister’s hand, staring her hard in the face. “Go wake up mom, I’ve got us packed. Once she’s up, get everything in the car.”

“But-”

“Mom first, get her awake and aware. Make sure she gets her wallet. You’ve got yours? Good.” She spun Bethany around by the shoulders and shoved her at the stairs, before diving in to the living room. How long did they have until the neighbors started panicking? Probably a while; even with the whole continent in a state of emergency, she knew that the sirens alone wouldn’t be enough to get people moving.

She glanced at the TV.

The video feed was a loop: Fleeing soldiers, an explosion. A vertigo spin as the news chopper made its final descent. Blurred faces of unspeakable nightmares. Underneath, the news bulletin scrolled in white text on red: CATASTROPHIC FAILURE IN OSTAGAR. KING’S FORCES WITHOUT AID. ARMY FLEEING DARKSPAWN. EVACUATION OF ALL MAJOR CITIES IM-

The screen went black. The lights died. There was bang and a brief shout of pain from upstairs, then a clatter as Bethany dragged Leandra down to the living room, favoring her knee.

“What the fuck happened to the lights?!”

“Bethany!”

“Sorry! I'm sorry, just…” Bethany gestured at her sister. “Well?”

Hawke flicked the living room light switch. There was no response. A cold prickle crawled up her spine. _About a hundred miles. That’s how far away Ostagar is. How fast do Darkspawn move? Did they cause this, or is it just a blown transformer? How long do we have to run?_

How long do we have to run?

“Bags are by the door,” Hawke said, gesturing to the backpacks. “Beth, your staff is there too. Mom, you have the gun.”

Leandra gasped, her hands flying to her throat. “But I-”

“Dad taught you how to shoot it, didn’t he?” Hawke stomped to the door, hefted Leandra's backpack, thrusting it grim-faced at her mother. Leandra fumbled with the backpack, eyeing the gun where it was strapped snug in a removable holster.

“Of… course he did but... Honey surely we don’t-”

"Mom, everyone who didn’t run already is going to start running soon.” She moved closer, bearing down on her mother, staring at her intently in the inky darkness. “The roads will probably be packed. We likely won't even make it to the freeway if we wait any longer." Feigning the bravery she desperately wished she had, she placed her hands carefully, firmly on her mother's shoulders. "We have to go.” We should have been gone already.

A breadth of silence was cast between them. Slowly, Leandra nodded.

Hawke let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and patted her mother’s shoulders. “Good. Good. You and Bethany get in the car, I’ll close up the house. Beth, you’re driving.”

“Where are we going? What about Carver?”

Hawke went cold. What about Carver? What were the odds that he’d been able to run? Would he have? Had there been a formal retreat, or had the slaughter simply been so bad that anyone not already dead had simply cut and run? Would he come this way? Oh, blessed Maker what if he was _dead?_

“I-”

Another sound, louder and closer, had detached itself from the siren’s piercing scream. Someone was leaning on a car horn, approaching the neighborhood. There was yelling. Hawke turned, spying headlights through the front window of the living room, swerving wildly and approaching far too fast for a residential street. Hawke dashed back out the door. Neighbors had begun spilling out of their homes, tripping over each other, some going for their cars, others milling about in stunned surprise. The car - a Jeep with emergency lights strung around its frame - screamed up the road, its driver screaming even louder.

“-CKING DARKSPAWN GET UP YOU FUCKERS GET UP AND GET GOING THEY’RE COMING-”

And then it shrieked past, horn blaring, down the street. A flash of light caught the corner of Hawke’s eye; another Jeep had followed the first, at a slight distance. More sets of headlights behind, breaking off to other residential areas. Five cars. One more coming up their road. She was on the sidewalk now - someone shoved past her to cross the street, dashing to another house. She could hear glass breaking somewhere.

The second jeep slowed as it approached, just enough for one figure to jump from the back, and then it swerved, taking a side street back towards downtown. The figure began to run towards her.

She knew that run. Even in the dark, with only stars and terror for illumination, she knew that gorky, stupid run. Thank the fucking Maker, she knew that run.

“Carver,” came out as a choked gasp. She swallowed, tried again, raising her arms above her head. “CARVER!”

She started to run to him, but tripped over her own feet as Bethany dashed past, launching herself down the street and to her twin, screaming his name with wild, panicked relief. Their shadows were one for the brief second they met, then they turned, separated, and sprinted towards their sister. Leandra, shaking, had come up behind Hawke and clung to her arm with one hand, reaching for her son with the other.

“Oh, baby, oh my baby, where did you _come from?”_ Leandra gasped, then stumbled as Hawke pushed her, gently, towards the twins, who folded around her, the three of them holding each other, sobbing in relief.

Another crash of glass came from one of the other dark houses. Hawke spun, scanning the street. Someone was already taking advantage of the panic to break into their neighbors’ homes; to what end she could hardly fathom. Further down the street, a scream cut under the siren’s blaring, and the sound of a car pulling away at speed fled into the dark.

“We have to go,” she said, making for the house. She jumped up the stairs and dashed into the foyer, grabbing her and Bethany's backpacks and staves. She snatched the keys from the rack on the wall, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Her hand lingered on the doorknob for only a second before she pulled herself away and pushed in long strides towards the car. “Come on!”

She tossed the bags and staves in the boot of the car. Carver, taking the initiative, shoved Bethany and Leandra into their seats, taking the driver’s side for himself.

“Where are we at, Carver?” Hawke asked, sliding in behind him. Another flock of jets screamed overhead, flying much lower this time, their passage causing the whole car to rattle.

“Not fucking here, that’s for sure,” Carver muttered. He jammed the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and tore out of the driveway and into the street. More of their neighbors were starting to do the same, piling belongings and each other into their vehicles. “We’ve gotta head East. Northeast. As far away in the opposite direction as we can get.”

“They were saying the King died,” Bethany said, twisting in her seat to stare out the back window. Hawke glanced back as well; the orange light in the distant South had gotten significantly brighter.

“Yeah, him and like fucking everybody else,” Carver said. His hands were tight on the wheel, jaw set, foot pressed hard on the gas. “Our backup? Never fucking came.”

“Lukas?” Leandra whispered, leaning in towards Carver’s seat. “Your cousin Lukas, did you see him?”

Carver gave a short, tight shake of his head. “No. Well, yeah, but only for a minute. He went off with some special forces guy. Never saw him after that.” Other cars were beginning to join them on the street; he swerved between them, accelerating

“Oh, Maker…” Leandra sat back, putting her hands over her face. “Oh, no.”

“The guy Lukas went with... They got us to retreat. They told us there wasn’t any help coming. Fuck, those things, they came so fast.” The speedometer continued to tic upwards. Carver’s breath was coming quick. Hawke could taste the blood that had soaked into his uniform just from the stench of it. “Said we had to run. Fucking everybody ran. Everybody tried to get to the jeeps. All I could do was hang on to the side and-” The car swerved drunkenly away from a minivan backing out of a driveway.

“Slow down, Carver,” Hawke said, placing her hand on the back of his seat.

“Don’t fucking tell me to slow down! Don’t you _fucking tell me that_! Do you know what we’re running from?!” He turned sharply, the wheel turning with him. Bethany and Leandra screamed; Hawke lunged forward, grabbed the wheel, and yanked it back to center.

“We won’t be running from _anything_ if you get us into a bloody wreck!” She snapped. _“Slow down!”_

There was a wet, soft noise. A kind of ‘whump,’ like a sack of wet laundry being dropped onto damp earth. The interior of the car suddenly became much brighter. Carver’s foot drifted away from the gas pedal; the car began to slow. Hawke released the wheel, turning as she did to look over her shoulder and out the back window.

The Southern horizon had exploded in a plume of brilliant flame.

“Holy shit,” Hawke breathed. “Did they drop a nuke?”

“No, but they might as well have,” Carver whispered. The car had slowed to a crawl. Other cars on the street had stopped, some of their inhabitants scrambling out to see.“It’s only gonna make it worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Lightning crackled from within the plumes of black ash belching into the sky.

 _That… that’s close. Closer than Ostagar. That plume can’t be any farther than forty miles away,_ Hawke thought, a cold shudder crawling up her spine. The destruction was that clear, that easy to spot, even from so far.

_How long do we have to run?_

“I don’t know,” the car began to accelerate again. Carver gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. “I heard that guy Lukas went with say something about bombing the place being bad. I don’t know.”

“Where do we go?” Bethany asked. She sat on her knees, staring out the back window, hand clutching Leandra’s as they sped away from the light.

How long do we have to run?

How long? The Darkspawn probably couldn’t outrun cars, and didn’t - as far as anyone knew - have vehicles of their own. They just crawled up from out of the deepest pits of your nightmares and swarmed through the Deep Roads until they breached and burned everything in their path.

“I don’t care! Away from here!” Carver said, pressing on the gas, then easing off as Hawke glared at him in the rear mirror. He turned down one of the dark streets, away from the more crowded main road. “Look, just. Sit tight, Beth, I’ll get us somewhere sa-”

The sound that interrupted him was sharp, sudden, heavy. The car lurched and something big hit the windscreen. It cracked with the sound of breaking ice and then buckled in, the duraplast glass curving in a shattering bowl to catch whatever the car had struck. Hawke pitched forward. She flung one arm in front of her mother, the other shielded her own face from cracking against the back of Carver’s seat. Bethany shrieked and ducked, covering her head with her arms. Carver slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, turned 180 degrees, then halted in the middle of an empty street. The engine rattled.

Very slowly, Hawke lowered her arms. She sat up, peering at the dark shape now wedged into the car’s front windscreen, buckled at such an angle that it was scant inches from Bethany’s face. Bethany, shivering, tried to scoot away from it.

“Oh, Maker… oh Carver I think you killed someone…”

“I… I…” Carver’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “I didn’t see…”

Hawke undid her seatbelt. Leandra flailed at her, grabbing her arm, head shaking frantically. Hawke gently pulled away, opened her car door, and slid out of her seat.

The wailing sirens were louder here. If she cared to look she’d see one of them standing attention only a few hundred yards away, screaming away on backup power. There were no people sounds, no lights in the neighborhood where they’d halted. In the distance there was a flicker of headlights around where she was sure the freeway was. All of this was periphery; as Hawke rounded the car her only true focus was on the figure currently merged with the car’s windscreen.

She vaguely remembered a conversation with her mother from weeks back, a complaint that since the Blight had begun, the suburbs had been overrun by wildlife. Deer, wolves, bears, bloody _dragonlings_ even, anything in the Kokari Reservation that hadn’t been Blighted or eaten or otherwise killed had fled the destruction, finding the manicured lawns and zoned ‘woodlands’ as far more hospitable territory than the wilds.

This was not a deer.

The thing hadn’t seemed to move since the car had come to a halt, but from here Hawke could see the slow rise and fall of the thing’s… torso, she supposed, indicating breath. The rattling of the car’s engine was undercut by a sound she was all too familiar with - the slow, wet roll of a death rattle. She crept closer, and then the smell hit her.

She staggered back - Maker what a stench - throwing her arm over her nose. It smelled like more than death; she knew what a corpse was supposed to smell like, and the thing itself clearly wasn’t dead. Its bulk still twitched, its breath rattled. She’d been around corpses, had even been the cause of a few, but nothing was like this… decay. She crept closer to get a better look at the thing, and the rattling breath stopped. A glance through the window showed that Bethany had crawled into her vacated seat in the back and was holding Leandra; Carver was still staring bug-eyed at the thing in the windscreen.

Hawke realized she’d left her spear in the car about half a second before the thing heaved itself away from the screen, drawing in another horrible, rattling breath. It clattered on the hood of the car, turning this way and that as it wrenched itself from its half-prison, and it howled. Inside the car Hawke could hear her family scream.

“CARVER! REVERSE! _NOW!!”_

Carver punched the car into reverse. The thing rolled off the hood, landing in a dark heap on the street. She could see its face, in the headlights.

Lightning flew from her hands before it had a chance to take a second breath. The thing twitched and screamed as the lightning hit it, writhed as the current coursed through its broken, hideous body, and then with a choking, smoking gasp, went still.

Hawke ran for the car. She dove into the abandoned front seat, turned, braced her back and kicked up and out with both feet, smashing the shattered windscreen, then with her hands tossed sheets of the crackled glass out of the car and onto the street. Carver, shaken from his stupor, twisted in his seat and brought his elbow up to smash the screen on his side. Once the screen was clear, Carver hit the gas again, and they sped off into the night.

“What was that?” Leandra asked, leaning forward to grip Hawke’s arm. Hawke placed a hand over her mother’s, realized she was bleeding - the shattered windscreen had done a number on her hands - and withdrew.

“I think it was a Darkspawn,” Hawke said, wiping her injured hand on her jeans. The gesture did little more than leave a sticky, red smear, but there was little else she could do for now.

“Your hand,” Bethany said, reaching for her. “Did it get you?”

“No, I cut it on the screen. No-” Hawke patted Bethany’s hand away, then grabbed it back, kissed her fingers in thanks, pushed away again. “Don’t heal me, save it ‘til we need it. There’s a first aid kit in my bag, just hand me that.”

“Yeah, don’t waste your magic to instantly heal someone,” Carver bit out. “Waste the bandages instead!”

“We’re going to use the resources we have and not _exhaust our sister_ , Carver,” Hawke snapped, taking the kit from Bethany.

Carver went silent, but the car accelerated perceptibly. Fine, let him drive fast. If there were more of those things out there, already filtering into the neighborhoods, he could drive as fast as he liked. Hawke bandaged her hand, barely concentrating on doing it properly as she scanned the streets ahead of them for more Darkspawn.

How had it gotten here? And so quickly? Lothering certainly wasn’t far from danger, but the city proper, as any other, was as insulated from Darkspawn as any city center could get. The few instances in recent memory that any Darkspawn had made it to an urban area had been news sensations for weeks, with media catcalls at Special Forces and Special Forces catcalls at the Crown and nothing had ever really been resolved. But even so, in those situations, there had been swift response and the creatures had been dealt with. Now, the only question that mattered was just how many more of the horrible, stinking things were hiding in the dark.

Hawke realized there was a new noise under the sirens, under the wind whipping through the car. A soft, insistent chiming. She glanced at the dashboard and cursed.

The gas indicator was nearly down to E.

_Maybe 15 more miles until we’re out. No electricity. Do stations still have manual pumps? Maker, please, if nothing else. Let them have a damned manual gas pump._

-

They’d made it to the freeway. It was mostly empty of cars; a few wrecks had been left to smolder in the pre-dawn light, adding their fumes to the smoke already crawling up the horizon. The sun was a glaring red cataract, hovering between the blackened, burning landscape and the sickly ash clouds pouring out from the wreckage that was Ostagar. Carver had done everything he could to push the car as far as possible, but it had finally sputtered out in the middle of the leftmost lane about three miles from the nearest gas station turnoff. They would have to hike the rest of the way, and pray the place had what they needed.

Hawke took point, spear out and ready, searching every shadow for signs of Darkspawn. There had been more, skulking along the sides of residential streets. She’d spied them slinking into houses, sniffing around cars, searching. Scouts? Stragglers? Was the hoard headed this way or were these just unfortunate remnants? There was no way of knowing, now. If there was anything out there, at least she had it on good authority that she’d smell it coming, first.

The thought crossed her mind almost the same moment a wave of stink hit her full-on in the face. She drew up short, gesturing for the others to halt. She heard the soft rustle and click of Carver taking the safety off his service rifle.

Somewhere ahead, a voice shouted, “No! You shall _not_ have him!” Gunfire popped. Hawke ran towards the sound, ignoring the shouts of warning behind her.

She crested the exit ramp leading up to the station they’d made their heading. There was another wreck here: three cars, one of them an army transport. The transport was rattling in a small ditch next to the service road. The other cars were aflame, wrecked in what looked like a violent t-bone. Two Darkspawn were crawling on top of the transport. Next to it, one figure in army fatigues stood with their back to Hawke, dragging another away from the wreck. Three Darkspawn lay dead at the soldier’s feet. In the firelight their faces were nightmares.

From behind her, a yell. Bethany had reached her. The soldier turned, wild eyed, gun up. Hawke froze. Bethany shouted a warning; the two remaining Darkspawn leaped from the top of the transport, straight for them.

Training, instinct, and terror joined forces and forced Hawke into action while her thinking brain was still catching up. Hawke brought up her spear in time to meet one of the Darkspawn, burying the spearhead in its shoulder. It shrieked as she used its momentum to carry it over her shoulder and to the ground. She wrenched the spear from it, stabbed again, aiming for the chest. Fire exploded right next to her head and she caught another facefull of the singularly awful stench of Darkspawn, now thoroughly barbecued. It took all of her willpower not to gag as the thing fell dead.

_“Apostate!”_

Hawke flinched. Bethany jumped closer to her, grabbing her arm. Their hands fumbled until they were holding; Hawke squeezed Bethany’s fingers. The second figure - the one the soldier had been dragging away from the wreck - now stood. In the firelight Hawke could see plainly the winged blade badge of office on his left breast, just over his heart. A _fucking Templar_. Injured, but still a Templar, and pointing directly at Bethany.

Hawke bared her teeth, tasted ozone, and let a current run down her spear into the still-struggling Darkspawn she had pinned. It twitched a little jig and then fell dead.

“Two Apostates, Templar,” she said. She yanked the spear from the cooked creature’s chest, and rested it on her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

The Templar cursed, took a step forward, then staggered, falling to one knee. The soldier was at his side immediately. She - a tall and imposing she - put a hand around the Templar’s arm, helping him stand again.

“Wesley, not now. Stop squirming,” she was saying, but the Templar pulled his arm away and stalked forward in a halting limp. Bethany backed away, colliding with Carver and Leandra, who had come up behind them, gasping for breath. Hawke stood her ground. The Templar bore down, reaching for a weapon he no longer had.

“I am charged with the apprehension of all Apostate Mages,” he said, glaring down at Hawke. The soldier approached behind the Templar but didn’t look like she was about to back his claim. “The Order dictates-”

“Wesley,” the soldier’s voice was gentle but firm as she took the Templar’s arm once more. “They saved our lives, Dear. The Maker will understand.”

Hawke hazarded a glance between the two of them, and decided to appeal to the Soldier. She at least looked like she was willing to keep her - what, boyfriend? Husband? - from attacking them, if his injuries didn’t stop him first.

“My sister is a healer,” she said, nodding to the Soldier. “If you-”

“If you think I will entrust my safety to an unknown Apostate,” Wesley bristled, then winced, and then gasped and went to his knee again. Bethany was at his side in an instant, pale green light already filling her hands. His face went from terrified to angry to resigned in the space of seconds. He flinched away from Bethany and then sagged as the healing magic took hold, taking a deep, pained breath. “All right,” he murmured, waving a hand vaguely.

Hawke shook her head, then looked to the soldier. She blinked; the soldier had extended her hand.

“My name Aveline Vallen,” the soldier said. She gestured to Wesley with her chin. “And my husband, Ser Wesley. Please excuse him. We can go on to hating each other later, but for now we’re grateful for the help.”

Hawke clasped hands, giving her a nod. In spite of herself, a grin pulled at the corner of her mouth. She glanced back at the Templar. “The wrath of the Templars is terrible indeed, to be hunting Apostates at a time like this.”

Behind her, Carver snorted a laugh, but Bethany cleared her throat. “Sis, the nice Templar might agree not to arrest us if you stop antagonizing him, maybe,” She said, grunting as she helped Wesley to his feet. “I’m sorry, Ser, that’s about as good as I can make it.”

“Wise girl,” said Aveline, releasing Hawke’s hand. Hawke could see the unspoken ‘wiser than her sister’ flash on Aveline’s face, and dropped the grin. She cleared her throat, standing a little straighter.

“I’m Hawke. This is my sister Bethany,” She jerked a thumb at her brother, and then pointed to her mother. “Brother Carver, and our mother, Leandra.”

Aveline put her head to one side. “Hawke is a family name,” She said, indicating the name badge on Carver’s uniform.

“Her name’s G-” Carver began. Hawke slapped a hand over his mouth.

“And it works just fine for me, doesn’t it?” She glared hard at Carver, who waggled his eyebrows, but held up a hand. He’d drop it, for now. Hawke took away her hand, then nodded to the group at large. “We should be moving.”

There was a pause, and she realized that everyone was looking to her. She swallowed hard, hoisted her backpack, and began marching towards the gas station again. Aveline fell into step behind her, Wesley at her side. Carver, Bethany, and Leandra followed. Hawke pressed on, ignoring the sick, terrified feeling crawling up her spine as she realized that, of all people, everyone present expected _her_ to lead.

 _Just focus on the next step,_ she thought, gripping and regripping her staff, trying to get a grip on herself. Get to the gas station, see if they have a manual pump. Get gas. Get back to the car. Get everyone in the car, somehow. Get out of here.

_You can do this, Hawke. For their sake, you have to._

-

There were no manual pumps. Not even a backup generator to get the regular pumps going again, and no way that anyone in the group knew to get at the reserve tanks that would be under the station itself. Frustrated, terrified, and exhausted, Hawke had dropped her bag in front of the station, gone down to one knee, and picked the lock on the front door. Leandra, scandalized, had attempted to chastise her daughter, but Aveline - surprisingly - had been the one to gently remind her her that they were in an emergency situation. No one would miss a few things that would spoil anyway.

Leandra had acquiesced, but the look she shot her daughter indicated that there would be a very intense line of questioning later, specifically in regards to where in the holy blazes her eldest child had picked up such a larcenous talent.

They raided the gas station. Aveline and Wesley, without much in the way of provisions of their own, filled their packs with what they could. While they did, Aveline related, in a voice full of stern displeasure and affection, how Wesley had come to find her on the battlefield after the other Templars had fled with the Chantry. Bethany had sighed over the romance of it all, which Wesley more than Aveline had seemed to appreciate. Clearly, the Templar was a romantic. In that, he and Bethany were certainly equals.

He’s about as scary as a puppy, Hawke thought as she picked the locks on the cash registers. Whoever had closed up shop had been kind enough not to count their drawers into the electric safe under the counter - the lock of which she had no hope of opening with her meager skill - so she pulled out and divided the cash among the group. _Bloody Templar with a heart of gold,_ she thought as she organized the take. _Fine lot of good that’ll do us if we find any other Templars out here, he’ll probably sell us out at the first opportunity and get a big, fat reward for it._

She knew she was being uncharitable, of course; Wesley seemed all right. After the initial bitching and moaning, he had come along with hardly a complaint or harsh word, though his face still had the expression of iron-shod resolve all Templars seemed to adopt as a default if any Mages were present in the room. It was probably stuck that way, so molded from years of training and Lyrium addiction that his face had reshaped to a visage of constant stern displeasure. Hawke didn’t relish the eventuality that he’d go into withdrawl without Lyrium; an injured Templar was bad enough. An injured Templar with the shakes and hallucinations would be unbearable.

Aveline was another story entirely. An Officer in the King’s Army, she had been through plenty of campaigns, multiple tours throughout Orlais and Ferelden. While Ostagar had been her first major encounter with Darkspawn, she’d clearly seen enough action that even their horrifying, disgusting forms hadn’t put her off too hard. She carried a light infantry service rifle, a Chevalier’s blade, and a Templar shield that looked like it had bashed in more than a few skulls. Guns were only so effective on Darkspawn, she had explained, and more direct tactics were often required to subdue the beasts.

While she still wasn’t sure about Wesley, Hawke trusted Aveline. If nothing else she trusted the soldier to keep her husband in line, and her blade between them and the Darkspawn. It certainly ticked the odds in their favor, if only slightly. One more blade against the things going bump in the dark was one more than they’d had before, and Hawke was not the kind of person to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if it was tethered to a Templar.

Her opinion of the Soldier improved even more when Aveline handed her an energy shot - a legitimate one - with a quiet look of understanding. Hawke knew she would be flagging soon from sleeplessness and fear. Best to stave that off as long as possible. They couldn’t afford to sleep.

With the gas station stripped of anything they could use, Hawke led the group East, following the highway. Clouds of black ash had poured into the atmosphere, blown by a harsh South wind. They all but blotted out the sun as it crept up over the edge of the world, a blazing red cataract that left the rest of the world as they knew it under an orange-grey pall. Pale ashes fell from the sky like dry snow. They marched in file, six sets of eyes set on the shadows around them, watching for any sign of Darkspawn.

“So, where are we going?” Carver asked, drawing up even with Hawke. Her mouth twitched into half a frown; she shrugged a shoulder.

“Not a clue; I just figure East and North is about as far from Ostagar as we can get.” She glanced at her brother. He looked like he’d been dragged to the Black City and back, face down, over broken glass. There were healed cuts all over his face - Bethany’s work, no doubt - that had bled enough to cover him with a grit of blood, dust, and ash. There was a kind of excited light in his eyes that Hawke recognized; adrenaline had completely seized him, and would carry him through probably a few more hours before it left him too exhausted to move. Kind of like how she felt now.

“You look like shit, kid,” she said, gently. He scowled; she grinned, smacking his arm with the back of her hand. Her injured hand. It throbbed, painfully, but she covered the wince. The pain was welcome, honestly. At this point she was pretty sure it and the energy shot were the only things keeping her on her feet.

“You look worse,” Carver countered. Then his head jerked, eyes scanning the area around them, tense. Seeing nothing, he relaxed again. “We have to figure out something,” he said.

“Well, let me know once you do, because I’m at a serious fucking loss for where to go from here,” said Hawke, waving her hand at the road ahead of them.

“We could go to Kirkwall,” said Leandra, coming up behind them, hand in hand with Bethany. Hawke stopped short. Just behind them, Wesley and Aveline did as well. Wesley looked curiously at Leandra.

“While I realize I am perhaps out of my mind for saying this, Mistress Hawke,” he said, “I doubt that is a good idea, considering your family is rather saturated with Apostates.”

“It wouldn’t be my first choice,” said Bethany. “Kirkwall has a reputation regarding Templars and martial law.”

“I know,” said Leandra. “But, we do have family there - your Uncle Gamlen. And the estate. We’d be protected.”

“A family name might not do much there,” said Wesley. “Honestly, Miss, you may want to reconsider.”

“Not to mention,” said Hawke, “We’d have to go to Gwaren and hitch a ferry up North. That’s South from here, and everything in that direction is either a flaming inferno, or crawling with Darkspawn.”

Leandra gave a dramatic shrug. “Well? It’s the only option I can think of. We can stand here arguing about it or-”

A howling shriek cut through the air. They spun as one, turning towards the sound. Too late, Aveline cursed. “Distraction!” She snapped, then spun, drawing her sword. Darkspawn burst from the shrub cover by the side of the road, scrambling over the highway blacktop. These carried swords, pikes, and maces to do whatever damage their teeth and claws couldn’t rend. The smell was dizzying.

Hawke threw down her bag and put up her spear, dashing forward to take them head on. Carver and Aveline flanked her left and right, swords drawn. Fire burst in bright flashes from Bethany’s hands.

In the gnashing, stinking fray, a stray thought caught hold of the back of Hawke’s mind, under the fighting terror. _How long have they been hunting us?_ Spear up. Block. Duck, spin, Spirit Bolt, run. Stab. Stab. Stab. _That’s pack behavior, right? One to distract us, while the others come in for the kill? Just how intelligent are they?_

Run. Turn. Spear up, down, around, get it under the armor and then in. Feel the give. Pull. Charge the bolt. Knock them back. _Turn, block, no-!_

She clashed with one of the beasts, staggering under the force of a blow from a sword as long as she was tall. She twisted, went down on one knee. Her injured hand throbbed and her grip slipped, the shaft of her spear hit her shoulder. She tilted sideways, pushed up with her good hand. The ‘spawn’s blade skidded up the shaft and away. It shrieked at her, pulled back to swing, then staggered, half-turning as Aveline brought her sword round to catch it in the side. She chopped once, twice, bisecting it on the final swing. It fell with a sickening hiss. Aveline grabbed Hawke’s arm and hauled her to her feet.

“We have to-”

A noise echoed over them. A low, horrible bellow of rage, followed by a great, thudding crash. Hawke turned, and froze.

It was... Enormous. One stride took it across half the highway, leaving cracks in the asphalt as it thundered towards them. Teeth like jagged razors dripped with spit and ichor in a face that looked like it had been stitched together from rag parts of other monsters. Its flesh stretched over plates and spikes of bone that looked like roughly-carved scales. Heads, human heads, strung on barbed wire dangled from round its neck. It bellowed and its reeking breath blasted over the highway like dragon fire.

Its passage had cut their little group in half.

Hawke staggered into a guard position, shaking. It stood like a bulwark, behind massive legs she could see Bethany desperately standing between it and their mother. Carver had been thrown, she could see Wesley hauling him to his feet. The beast bellowed again. It turned, massive head swinging to take in its options. Pitted in its misshapen face, light glittered from tiny eyes as it spied prey. It turned away from the blades raised against it, and lunged.

Bright flashes of fire strobed around its head. It staggered, howling. Enraged. Bethany jumped back, shoving Leandra away, throwing up her spear to defend against the indefensible.

From somewhere, maybe a million miles away, Hawke heard someone screaming. Screaming as the thing’s massive hand reached for her sister, as Bethany tried to dodge away, just bare inches from safety. As it lifted her by one leg above its head. As, for a second, it looked like it might just toss her away, like she would fly from its grip and land, injured but alive, some distance away.

Screaming, as it yanked down. As Bethany hit the pavement with a wet, horrible crunch. As it raised its arm again and tossed, throwing the broken thing that had been Bethany away, rag doll body twisting through the air. Screaming at the arc of blood and ashes following the brief, terminal flight.

Screaming as she charged. As lightning filled the world.

She didn’t realize the thing was dead until Aveline pulled her from its corpse, yanking from her hands the spear she’d driven into the burnt-out pits that had been its eyes over and over and over. Holding her tight, murmuring _Gone now, it’s gone now, Hawke, you’ve killed it, it’s gone now_ … while all she could hear but for Aveline’s voice was the high, keening wail of her mother’s grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for patiently awaiting this installment! As always, feedback and comments are welcome and encouraged.


	3. Prologue Part 3: Fare Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke, still a little entranced, let out a stuttering laugh. “You’re the Witch of the Wilds? Did you know there are cartoons about you?”

Prologue Part Three: Fare Well

_“O Maker, hear our cry:_

_Guide us through the blackest nights_

_Steel our heart against the temptations of the wicked_

_Make us to rest in the warmest places.”_

Black smoke obscured most of the road now. The popping, crackling flames sounded like artillery fire echoing over the nearly empty highway.

Wesley knelt at the head of the small pyre. Head bowed, he sang Transfigurations in a low, gentle voice. Leandra and Carver clung to his hands, heads also bowed, silent in their weeping. Leandra’s mouth moved along with the chant. She had refused to leave her daughter’s body behind. Even in the face of looming threat, there had been no arguments.

_“O Creator, see us kneel:_

_For we walk only where you would bid us,_

_Stand only in places you have blessed,_

_Sing only the words you place in our throats.”_

Hawke stared at the fire, spear gripped in one hand. The other, injured hand hung loose at her side. She stood so close to Aveline that their knuckles touched.

_“Our Maker, know our hearts_

_Take her from a life of sorrow,_

_Lift her from a world of pain_

_Judge her worthy of your endless pride,”_

There had been no Darkspawn left after Hawke’s outburst; all either dead or fled from her fury, buying them the chance to hold this makeshift funeral. Hawke and Aveline had pulled brush and kindling from the side of the road, while Wesley held on to Leandra and Carver, praying over them.  Aveline had helped lift Bethany onto the bed of twigs and dry deadwood, laying her down as if to sleep. There was no way to clean the blood, but Aveline had tried anyway, wiping what she could from Bethany’s face. From the remains of Bethany’s face.

None of them had a lighter strong enough to start the pyre flame. Hawke had pulled the composition spellbooks from her bag, rifling through them until she found the page in Bethany’s handwriting for the fire spell neither of them had never quite mastered.

The fire had taken so quickly. They hadn’t even needed to douse the kindling with gas...

 

_“Our Creator, judge her whole:_

_Find her well within Your grace_

_Touch her with fire that she may be cleansed_

_Tell her she has sung to Your approval.”_

 

“Gas,” Hawke muttered under her breath. “If only I’d remembered the _fucking gas_.”

Aveline glanced at her sideways. “Hawke?”

Her hands clenched. The split on her right palm cut a line of fire up her nerves and into her heart, squeezing it in a vice of grief and pain. “I forgot to top off the tank,” she said through gritted teeth, hating herself for saying out loud even as she said it, knowing there was really no way she could take fault for this but...

“Hawke, no,” Aveline’s voice was sharp, solid. She turned, laying her hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “Listen to me-”

Hawke’s breath came to her like a slow gasp. “No,” she said. She hung her head, fist clenched, diving into the pain that felt like glass shards in her blood. Hadn’t she done everything? Hadn’t she done _everything_ to get them out safe? Oh, blessed Andraste she hadn’t checked the _gas level_ on the fucking car and now-

Aveline grabbed her, turning her shoulders, forcing up her face so their eyes met. “Hawke, _this is not your fault_.”

 

_“O Maker, hear our cry:_

_Seat her by Your side in death_

_Make her one within Your glory_

_And let the world once more see Your favor.”_

 

Oh, Maker, that corpse. Bethany, there. Burning. Skin blackening and peeling away as her hair went up in smoky wisps, clothes smoking and popping as the inflammable fabric fought the inevitable. There, where Hawke herself had laid her down, still and heavy and dead.

“Hawke” Aveline’s grip felt like hot iron. The world spun; she knew she’d be falling if Aveline wasn’t holding her up. She stared into Aveline’s face from what felt like an underwater grave.

Buttons and buckles and the little ring she’d bought from the renaissance faire and the cheap braided necklace Hawke had made for her melting in the heat, face gone and hands gone and laughter, smile, voice, gone, nothing left but the bloodstains on the road, on Hawke’s shoes, on her hands...

 

_“For you are the fire and the heart of the world,_

_And comfort is only Yours to give.”_

 

She shuddered, and her knees _did_ give. Aveline kept her hold, gently kneeling as Hawk lowered to the ground, one arm going around Hawke’s shoulders, folding around her to block out the glow of the fire.

Fat bubbling and frying, flesh charring into _thick black smoke oh please not Bethany, please. Please, no, please. Anything but this. Why can’t I fix this?_

Her hand throbbed in agony.

“Hawke,” said Aveline, her hands on either side of Hawke’s face now. “I can tell you are very strong.”

Blood boiling and evaporating, life gone in a splatter of bright red on black ash and she could see just there where the thing had grabbed her and the cracks in the asphalt and the sound of her head hitting the ground and the shocked look on her face as the light winked out almost instantly from her eyes-

“You are going to have to be stronger than ever now-”

-and Mother screaming and the empty, half-gone, lost look in Carver’s eyes, the dull surprise on the remains of Bethany’s face-

“You _must_ carry on, Hawke-”

-so much blood, _everywhere_ ,-

“Your family needs _you_ Hawke, you _must_ pull together-”

-so much of it, hers and Bethany’s, and oh Maker it was right there, why the fuck didn’t she know anything about blood magic? How did you bring a burning corpse back to- no, no wrong, terrible, but the blood, was there something? Anything she could do? There was just... there was so much of it-

“Steady, Hawke, steady on now-”

_I could… I can fix this, right?_

“Aveline.”

“Hawke?”

_Fix it how? What the hell do you think you can do, fool?_

“I need you to hit me.”

“What? I’m not going to-”

Hawke could remember hearing, once, how a mage had preserved the spirit of a dead loved one using their blood. This memory - likely false, clearly not sane - bounced around the inside of her skull as she stared up into Aveline’s face. Eyes hard, heart breaking, she could feel the tether of her own self control unraveling. She needed to be stopped.

“I need you to slap me as hard as you can, right now, or I will try to do something _very foolish_.”

Hawke took a breath, and then she saw stars.

The slap Aveline leveled against her was like getting hit with a bowling ball that had been propelled from the end of a whip. Like she’d hit a brick wall at speed. Like she’d just told Aveline Vallen to slap her out of doing something stupid. It echoed across the empty highway, covering the sound of the pyre for only a second, but a second was long enough, more than long enough, to shake Hawke back away from the dark abyss where the songs of blood came from.

She profoundly hoped that she would never, ever have to ask Aveline to slap her again. For any reason.

Gingerly, she put her hand up to her cheek. The cut on her palm still throbbed, but the pain didn’t bring the… other part. The sound, the temptation, was gone, replaced by simple pain. Her cheek felt like it had been rubbed raw; even her gums hurt. One side of her tongue had gone a little bit numb.

“Wow. I. Think I might be a bit deaf in this ear now,” she said, softly.

“I’m sorry, you were-”

Hawke flapped a hand at her. “No, _no_. No, Aveline, thank you.” Aveline wavered in front of her, fading into- ah. No, she hadn’t been slapped blind. She was only crying.

They were only tears.

It was only pain.

And Bethany-

“She’s gone,” Hawke said, staring at the fire. “She was gone when she hit the pavement.” All that burned now was a shell, and even that was being rent to ash. She stared at the silhouette trio of Wesley, Carver, and her Mother, holding hands in grieving fellowship as the flames popped and danced into the darkness.

Aveline’s grip on her shoulder eased. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was almost frighteningly gentle. “She is gone, Hawke. I am… I am so sorry.”

Hawke nodded. They stood together, needing no signal. It was time to rise, and time to leave. She rubbed her face, hot from pain and the fire and the wet tracks of her own tears. “Thank you, Aveline,” she said. It hurt to speak. Each word ripped up through a vice that had closed around her throat, but she spoke anyway.

Together they went to the pyre, and gathered the remainders of their families.

 

-

 

The clouds of black ash had begun to blow in thick from the South.  Thick flakes of the stuff fell in intermittent bursts, covering the ground with a fuzzy, dark coat. Footfalls conjured soft, puffing clouds, and all the sound was muffled in the grey stillness. Brief breaks in the cloud cover let spears of sunlight through from time to time, but the only thing that kept the road ahead of them navigable was the median barrier for the highway.

The waist-high cement wall was now covered with a coating of ash thick enough that it looked as though it had been cured with obsidian. It stretched ahead of the wayfaring group as they headed South, into the rolling black clouds and bomb-induced wildfire, towards Gwaren. They covered their faces with shirts and scarves as the ash fell thicker and faster around them.

If there were Darkspawn prowling the service roads along the highway, they made no signal of their presence. Occasionally, what sounded like gunfire or the compressive whumph of dropping bombs would echo in from a distance, but in the cloud the direction and origin of the noise was a true mystery. Fires littered the roadside. Corpses were thicker the further South they moved - mostly dead soldiers, either fled too late or left behind to make a final stand against a force that had since moved on. The rest of the corpses were Darkspawn.  

Hawke took point, but listened with quiet intent as Wesley pointed out and named the different types of Darkspawn among the corpses they passed, between bouts of painful coughing from the smoking ash around them. Genlock. Hurlock. The… beast that had taken Bethany, an Ogre. Other names, some obscure, some that sounded like foolish fairy-tale names for make-believe monsters, suddenly rendered all too real and terrible to contemplate.

They had marched from the funeral pyre less than half an hour before Wesley fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

In the ashen darkness, something… several somethings, began to hiss and chatter.

The group drew in. Two fighters, a Mage, and a Mother, closed around an infirm Templar nearly too weak to even draw breath. Weapons out, ready.

Waiting.

They did not have to wait for long.

The things that spilled from the darkness did not all have names. Among them were Genlocks and Hurlocks, but many were beasts beyond recognition, beyond any sensible description. They scrambled, ran, lunged, jumped at the meager prey that had wandered into their realm, under the ash, into the dark. They screamed in agony as they were burned by bright lightning, and cut by sharp blades, pierced by swift gunfire. They shrieked their vengeance as their prey denied its place and fought, pushing them back, keeping them from their rightful meal.

They screamed their rage as the one that wielded light like flame laughed in their faces, slinging magic against them as if it was right to do so.

And when _she_ came, they fled.

 

-

 

“There’s no end to them!”

Teeth snapped at the air next to Hawke’s ear. She spun, slashed, jabbed the air with her fingers to guide the lightning.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll run out of Darkspawn?”

She laughed at the absurdity of it all. Laughed as more lightning burst from her spear and cooked a charging Hurlock. It fell, skidding to a halt at her feet.

“Not _now_ , Hawke! Carver, down and left!”

Something screamed as Carver emptied the last of his ammunition into its body. A spray of hot blood hit the back of Hawke’s neck.

_Is this it?_

A blow caught her off guard, she fell to one knee, spear up just in time to block the descent of a mace.

_This can’t be it._

She twisted and struck; the spearhead sunk into a soft target.

_We didn’t fucking just have a roadside funeral for this._

She scrambled to her feet, staggering as a Genlock’s head - liberated from its shoulders - smacked into her side.

_Not to die here, not like this._

She pointed, nothing came. She gasped for air.

 _No mana. Fuck you._ Fuck _you._

Spear up, around, a butterfly arc that terminated in something’s throat.

_We are not going to die in this fucking place. Not like this._

An explosion of light and fire.

_Fire?! Beth-! No. What is-_

And then she saw.

“Blessed fucking Andraste,” she breathed.

 

-

 

It happened like this:

The ash cloud that had covered the highway and all points beyond swirled around them like a dry hurricane. Darkspawn from every direction poured from the blackness, screaming in dumb hate and fury. They fought, desperate, exhausted, certain in nothing more than every blocked attack being a minor delay in Death’s schedule. They fought anyway.

And then, the darkness erupted.

It heaved in, and out, like someone blowing a series of smoke rings into an already diaphanous cloud. Then came the heat. Heavy, damp, expanding, exploding onto the road. Flesh charred and sizzled into steam. Darkspawn from all sides shrieked their confused terror. Some fled. Others were caught up, incinerated, rendered into ash to join the ever-blackening cloud.

From the cloud, massive wings stretched high, high into the air, and then with a whoosh were brought down, spinning the smoke and the ash into a swirling storm. Another wingbeat, and the cloud began to dissipate. A third was accompanied by a great streaming jet of flame that melted the asphalt, charring more Darkspawn into nothingness, burning away the lingering cloud.

The great flaming eye of the sun glittered off of black and scarlet scales polished by living magic, set like a million gems into a hide that gleamed like liquid metal. Ivory teeth set beneath eyes birthed in smoldering coals; curved steel claws glinting with wicked intent. Wings that when outstretched covered the entire highway with their translucent shadow.

Nothing remained of any Darkspawn but corpses. All that lived on the road were five ragged refugees… And the Dragon.

It stood, one enormous foreleg resting on the cement road barrier, leaning on it as though ready for a casual conversation.

Hawke stood between it and the others, spear clenched in her hands, back straight, legs braced. The Dragon’s massive head tilted, one glowing, sulphurous eye regarded her with a stare that pinned her where she stood.

What happened next she could hardly believe, and would never really be able to describe.

Golden light shivered up from between the Dragon’s scales, bathing it in brightness. And then it seemed to fold, collapsing in on itself. The light brightened - blinded - and then resolved itself into a new form, only a few paces away from the spot where Hawke had chosen to make her futile stand. One arm folded on the median wall, head tilted to regard her with one eye. Hawke stared back at the most enchanting woman of indeterminate age she had ever laid eyes on.

She wore dark scarlet armor, studded with silver. A black feathered mantle on her shoulders fluttered in the slight breeze her wings had carried. Yellow-gold eyes gleamed from her finely lined face, under an iron circlet that held her hair - long, silvery white, elaborately styled to mimic the horns that so proudly crowned the Dragon shape she had worn - back and out of the way. Her mouth was curved into a smirk that knew things.

“Well, well,” She said, her voice like low thunder, “what have we here?” She cast her eyes about, taking in Hawke, Aveline, Carver, Leandra, Wesley. “It seems as though visitors are arriving in hordes these days.”

You know exactly what you have here, Hawke thought, feeling a shiver of intuition crawl down her spine and burrow into her gut. _Hordes. Haha, that’s hilarious. You know full fucking well what you have here, don’t you. What’s your game, Dragon Lady? Why did you save us? Where the_ fuck _were you two hours ago?_

Hawke grinned, keeping the anger, the fear, in check. “Nice trick,” she replied, relaxing her stance, laying her spear on her shoulder. “Love the armor. Where’d you learn to turn into a Dragon?”

The woman’s mouth pulled back into a grin, showing teeth like fine, sharp porcelain. “Perhaps I _am_ a Dragon,” she said. She pushed away from the median, striding towards Hawke, circling her. The smile that lingered on her face was a predator’s grin; her eyes glinted in the new sunlight. Hawke kept still, enduring the scrutiny. “If so, thank your luck. The smell of burning Darkspawn does little to whet the appetite.”

“Ashes don’t add much to the taste either, I’d imagine,” Hawke replied, keeping her voice level. The woman chuckled, it rolled into the air between them, vibrating in Hawke’s bones.

“Quite true. Are you fleeing Darkspawn, child? If so, I would suggest running away from their nest, not towards.”

“What, you mean trying to take them down in a wild blaze of glory is a bad plan?” Hawke clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Well damn. Anything better you want to suggest? Running is starting to lose its appeal.”

Behind her, Aveline murmured, “Hawke, be careful…”

The woman halted in front of Hawke, pinning her again with the burning, bright gaze. The smile had not left her face. Hawke quietly prayed that the smile was a good thing.

“I spied something most curious down the road,” said the woman. She stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. The woman was taller by a few inches. It felt like miles. “An ogre, vanquished. Quite thoroughly, in fact. I wondered, ‘who could be responsible for such a feat?’ Surely not the one left smoldering on the funeral pyre next to it.”

Behind them, Leandra let out a soft, helpless noise. Hawke kept her easy grin fixed in place. _I see_ , she thought, staring back at the woman, stamping down on the grieving scream she could feel pushing its way up from behind her heart. _She’s trying to freak me out, make me sweat. Okay, fine. I can play that game._

“What can I say? When you’re right, you’re right,” said Hawke. She lifted an eyebrow. “All this just to satisfy your curiosity?”

“Hm, I wonder,” the woman replied. “That curiosity is sated, and you live. For the time being.” Then she turned sharply on her heel, putting her back firmly to Hawke, looking out over the wrecked highway. “That should do.”

“You can’t just leave us here!” Carver exclaimed, taking a step forward, then halting in his tracks as the woman turned her head ever so slightly to pin him with her stare.

“Can I not,” She said. It was more than a statement. It was a threat, a promise that such presumption would end in a charred smear on the pavement.

Hawke said, “You could stick around and teach me that neat Dragon trick.”

The woman turned, fixing Hawke once again in her sights. For the barest second, she thought she could see something flash in the woman’s eyes. Something like the look her mother got just before calling her a cheeky little shit. Hawke’s grin widened. _That’s right, eyes on me. Don’t even think about flaming my brother, and we’ll be fine._

The woman grinned back. “If only being clever were the only requisite skill, hm? You are very bold, girl.”

“That’s a gentle way of putting it.”

Hawke’s vision blurred. She blinked. The woman was in front of her again, scant inches away. One gauntleted hand closed around her chin, lifting her face. In the woman’s eyes, the world _burned_.

“Shall we call this fate, or chance?”

_Don’t sweat. Don’t let her see you sweat. Fuck, she is so scary, do not let her see you sweat._

Hawke stared back, defiant, expectant, waiting. Fucking terrified but that part she kept locked down, deep down with the grief and the anger. The woman’s gaze more than her grip kept Hawke rooted to her spot. She could see so much in those eyes, behind her own reflection.

“I like you, girl.” The grip eased, so Hawke’s chin was caught neatly between the woman’s thumb and index finger. “You fight all comers, carving a path through the chaos to shape the world around you.” Her voice lowered, so only they could hear what she whispered next. “Death will have to take you sleeping, lest it expect a battle.”

Hawke couldn’t stop the soft, surprised laugh that escaped her. She said, “Kind of a cold comfort, that.”

“It is, isn’t it.”

Hawke raised her voice from the whisper. “Who are you?”

The woman’s smile changed, ever so slightly. It was almost… fond. She said, “An old hag who talks too much.”

“She’s the Witch of the Wilds,” Aveline said, her voice cutting through the very odd atmosphere. “I’ve heard of her before.” The woman let go of Hawke’s chin.

“Some have called me that,” said the Witch, nodding to Aveline. “Also Flemeth, or _Asha’bellanar_. For now,” she glanced at Hawke again, “Flemeth will do just fine.”

Hawke, still a little entranced, let out a stuttering laugh. “You’re the _Witch of the Wilds_? Did you know there are cartoons about you?”

Flemeth grinned, all teeth and blood and fire in her eyes, “Cute, aren’t they? I suppose I should be grateful: it isn’t often Apostates such as us are given a favorable limelight.”

“Apostates such as us,” Hawke parroted, not a little stunned that Flemeth would put them anywhere near the same league as each other. I’m a bug compared to her, and she knows it.

“Yes, the ones smiled upon by fortune.” Flemeth’s expression sobered slightly. “Perhaps we may even be able to assist one another, caught as we are in this time and place.”

“If your assistance includes torching more Darkspawn, I am only too happy to oblige with whatever you need,” said Hawke.

Flemeth chuckled. “You’re quick to indebt yourself.”

Hawke gestured to the ruined highway around them, at the charred husks of the Darkspawn that had been unlucky enough to be caught by Flemeth’s fire. “I’m kind of already in debt.”

Flemeth threw back her head and laughed. All but Hawke took a step away from her. Wesley stumbled, falling to his knees. Aveline knelt by his side.

“Then, let us enter an accord,” Flemeth said. She thrust out an arm: from her armored fingers dangled a pendant hung on a fine, glittering chain. It caught the sunlight like a prism, arresting Hawke’s attention, dazzling her eyes. She held out her hand, palm up, and Flemeth lowered the pendant into her grasp. The slight weight sent another stab of pain through her palm, shaking her from the entrancing spell the bauble had briefly cast. It still seemed to glimmer as it lay on the blood-soaked bandage.

“There is a Dalish clan that has taken residence on Sundermount, outside of the city of Kirkwall in the Free Marches,” Flemeth said, her voice bright, grin flashing. “Take this to their Keeper, Marethari, and all debts between us will be settled.”

Hawke stared at the pendant, then her eyes snapped to meet Flemeth’s. “We were heading to Kirkwall already,” she said.

“Were you indeed?” Flemeth’s eyebrow raised. “What a happy coincidence.”

_You knew. Of course you knew. How long have you been watching us?_

“There is another matter, however, that will require our attention before we depart,” Flemeth continued. She turned sharply, taking three long strides until she loomed over Aveline and Wesley. Aveline scrambled to her feet as Flemeth approached, putting herself between them.

“ _No_!” Her voice was sharp, high, panicked. “No, leave him be!”

“I will not touch him,” said Flemeth, looking down at them, her expression carefully neutral. “You need not fear my wrath; worse will take him from you before I would choose to act.” She stared hard at Aveline, lowing her chin. “But you already knew that.”

“No,” Aveline snapped, kneeling, hands grasping for her husband. She knelt with him again. “He’s fine, Wesley, tell her you’re fine!”

He murmured something too soft for Hawke to hear. Aveline gasped out a breath as though she’d been struck. Her mouth formed another No but no sound reached Hawke’s ears.

“What - what’s wrong with him?” Carver asked. He knelt on Wesley’s other side. “Wes, you’re still hurt? We have first aid kits, we can-”

“No,” Wesley said. His breath rattled as he spoke. “It’s… it was the blood, the Darkspawn blood.”

“He has been tainted. For some time, it seems,” said Flemeth, her voice as clinical and detached as an autopsy surgeon. Hawke drew up even with her, clutching the pendant in her hand.

 _Oh, come on, Maker, come on, not Wesley too, he’s_ good _, he’s a_ good _Templar, you can’t take him too._

“What can we do? Flemeth, what can we do?”

The Witch of the Wilds turned her head just so, gazing sideways at Hawke. Her neutral expression, so cultivated compared to the near-feral grin from before, was a funeral mask. Hawke felt another fist squeeze into her heart. Aveline, hands shaking, wiped blood and ash away from Wesley’s face. The veins on his neck had gone black, his skin pale as a corpse under the filth.

“Only a Grey Warden can possibly undo the curse of the taint,” Flemeth said.

“Grey Wardens don’t exist,” Leandra said. She had knelt as well, both hands gripping Carver’s arm like a lifeline, staring at Wesley through a fresh fall of tears that had hardly stopped in the last hour. “They’re just a myth.”

“But that Special Forces guy,” Carver said, his voice high and shaking with a distant hope. “He wore Grey, he had a weird badge, maybe…”

“Whether or not they exist,” said Flemeth, crossing her arms, “is inconsequential. Any who may still carry that title are far from here.” Her gaze fell again on Aveline. “Your man is doomed to a slow death, lest you show him mercy.”

“You can’t be _serious_!” Hawke cried. At the same time, Carver yelled, “Bull _shit_!”

_We haven’t even known him six hours, how can you expect this from us?!_

Aveline was staring at her. She realized, with horror, that Aveline was _looking to her._

She stepped forward, then knelt at Aveline’s side. Carver was still clinging to Wesley’s shoulder, as Leandra clung to Carver. Aveline’s hands, shaking, clasped her husband’s.

 _I can’t do this for you._ Another realization, from the dark place, welled up to the surface of her mind. Aveline’s eyes locked with hers, and the understanding shared between them and left a cold, fist-sized lump in her chest.

_I can’t, because I can’t promise I won’t feel a little satisfaction from killing a Templar. Even if it’s him. Even if it’s for you._

She could not, would not do such a thing. Not to Wesley, who had sung the chant for Bethany. Not to Aveline, who had slapped her back into sanity.

There were no tears in Aveline’s eyes when she took the service knife from Wesley’s belt. There were no tears as they leaned close, foreheads touching, and said goodbye, hands clasped tight, together, around the hilt.

Aveline kissed his forehead, the deathly fever already cooling from his skin, then folded his arms over his chest and laid him down. She took the soot-blackened badge from his chest to hold over her heart.

She stood, whispering to herself, “For you are the fire and the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.”

“I… I’ll get...” Carver said, standing shakily, drawing Leandra up with him, “I’ll get kindling for the pyre…”

“There will be no need,” said Flemeth. They all turned to her, staring as one into her regal, impassive face. “I shall do him this honor.”

She gestured, they stepped back. The flame that curled around Wesley obscured him immediately in golden, almost holy light.

Hawke mutely pressed her knuckles against Aveline’s. Their fingers brushed together, wrists turned, palms met. The wound on Hawke’s palm split, spilling fresh warm blood into the bandages as Aveline gripped Hawke’s hand tightly as a frightened child, staring into the flames, tears marking pale tracks through the ashes on her cheeks.

 

-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I wonder why I have this weird compulsion to write these horrible sad things happening but then I realize it's because I get to share it with people like you, who probably cry and feel emotions, and I like causing that pain.


	4. Chapter 1 - Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few moments Aveline asked, “What did you do before you left Lothering?”
> 
> Hawke looked at her sideways, and after a moment forced a smile. “Nah, I already let you have one secret for free."

Interlude 1

-

 

“ _You cannot be serious.”_

_She leans forward, placing her hands on the table. “I swear to you, Tethras, if you tell me she rode to Kirkwall on the back of a dragon-”_

_He laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. But it does sound a lot better than ‘And then the Champion drove to Gwaren in a hatchback.’”_

“ _What?”_

“ _A hatchback. You know, the kind of car a soccer mom drives.”_

“ _I know what a hatchback is, Tethras.” She scowls, taking her seat again with a sigh. “I cannot argue that it does sound less… interesting than the tale you presented in your book.”_

“ _I know, I like my version better. But the truth of it is, the Witch pointed out a clear path and a car with plenty of gas, then sent them on their way.”_

“ _It just seems so… simple.”_

“ _After everything else they went through up to that point, simple probably felt like a blessing.”_

_They are silent for a time. He sips from a glass of water. She drums her fingers on the tabletop, regarding him carefully. “The book never mentioned a sister,” she says eventually._

“ _Correct.”_

“ _Is there a reason for this?”_

_He spreads his hands, grins, but then he seems to reconsider. The grin fades. He sets his hands on the table. “It’s a hard death to make into a story, Seeker. Wesley is there because an Apostate Mage mourning the death of a Templar has a romantic hero flavor. Not to mention Aveline would have had me by the balls if I didn’t at least pay homage to him.”_

_She raises an eyebrow. “And the Champion?”_

“ _We talked about it. Bethany didn’t make it to the final draft at her request.”_

“ _But why? Why not acknowledge it? Certainly it would have made her brother’s actions less… well, slightly more understandable.”_

_He goes silent. She waits._

“ _I’m going to remind you that you said that, Seeker,” he says, quietly. “For now let’s say it was because Bethany dying didn’t directly affect the events that led up to you questioning me here.”_

“ _Why will you not tell me the truth?”_

“ _We’ll get to that truth in good time.” He then puts on a brittle smile, clapping his hands together. “So, ready for more?”_

_She sighs. “I suppose we should continue.”_

 

\--

Chapter one: Exodus

\--

1

 

“Jennifer.”

Hawke paused halfway to taking a bite of jerky, and looked sideways to Aveline. Beside them, Carver snorted to cover a laugh. “What?”

“Not Jennifer, then,” Aveline sighed. “What about... Jessica?”

Hawke stared at her, then leaned to look at Carver, who was covering his face with a hand, grinning. She looked back to Aveline. “Who the fuck is Jessica?”

“Well, not _you_ , clearly,” said Aveline. she poured a handful of trail mix into her palm, carefully picking out and setting aside the cashews.

“Not… _what?_ ”

The three of them sat abreast on Gwaren’s meager seawall, looking out over the choppy waves of the Frozen Seas. It had taken two days of hard driving to reach Gwaren using the directions Flemeth had provided. They’d gone through Southreach and into the Brecillan forest, stopping to sleep in abandoned roadside motels long left behind by people who had been wise enough to run far ahead of the Blight. Finally, they’d made it to Gwaren… or specifically, the sign for Gwaren’s city limits, where the car Flemeth had pointed them to had sputtered and died and wouldn’t be started again. Then they had walked the long, silent miles to the city proper, where the Army had commandeered warehouses for Emergency Relief by the city wharf. In that heap, the last straggling refugees seeking passage out of Ferelden were processed before being allowed to leave for parts unknown on the ships that came and went weekly, providing meager relief to the town’s strained resources.

Aveline had bullied her way to the Officer In Charge, showing her credentials to secure them something with a passing resemblance to acceptable lodging. Meanwhile, Leandra had made calls ahead to Kirkwall. So far she’d had no luck contacting her brother, limited as she was to pay phones and the occasional lobby desk telephone.

The next ferry out would arrive tomorrow, and after that would be a long, cramped trip by boat up the coast to Kirkwall. All they could do now was wait - and try to find a way to amuse themselves.

“Not a Jessica,” Aveline sighed. She looked sideways at Hawke.

“Aveline, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Hawke stared at the two of them, completely mystified. From Aveline’s other side, Carver threw back his head and barked out a laugh. “What is _with_ you two?”

Carver regained his composure long enough to say, “She’s trying to guess your _name_ , idiot!”

Hawke blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “I… my… _Jessica?_ Do I _look_ like a Jessica?”

Aveline studied Hawke's face for a moment. “You could be a Jessica,” she said.

“I’m the least Jessica person I have ever met,” said Hawke.

“That sounds like something a Jessica would say,” said Aveline.

Carver said, “You should’ve heard her first guess; she was pretty close.”

Hawke squinted at the two of them. “What _was_ the first guess?”

“Jezebel,” Aveline and Carver said together. Hawke leaned away from them, put on a dramatic frown, and laid a hand over her heart.

“Wow, Aveline, and here I thought we were friends.”

“We _are_ friends, Hawke.”

“Friends that make cruel and completely unjust judgments on each others character by way of malicious acts of misnaming?”

“Seems to be looking that way, I’m afraid.” Aveline gave Hawke a little sideways smile. There hadn’t been many smiles on Aveline’s face thus far, but Hawke was starting to like the sight of them. She grinned back, nudging Aveline with an elbow.

“ _Jezebel_. That’s cute, though. People would probably take me seriously. Jezebel was the one in the Chant with the third tit, right?” Hawke looked down at her chest contemplatively. Carver made an uncomfortable noise. Hawke smiled.

“Do people not take your real name seriously? Considering taking you seriously or at face value is a mistake.” Aveline asked innocently, popping a handful of trail mix in her mouth. Hawke wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“No, they don’t. And no, you’re not getting it out of me that easily.”

“Carver said it started with a hard ‘j’ sound or… maybe a ‘g,’” Aveline mused, kicking her heels against the wall.

“I’ll give you another hint,” said Carver, taking the abandoned cashews from Aveline’s little pile. “Mom wanted her to be a ballerina.”

Aveline let out a braying laugh, spilling the remains of her trail mix. Hawke dodged the spray, but dropped her jerky in the process. She whined as it tumbled down the seawall to the beach. Further down the strip, a stray dog that had been eying them saw the sudden windfall and made for the jerky.

“Aw, Aveline, my lunch,” said Hawke, gesturing sadly at the dog, who was going to town on the dropped wrapper.

“You have more,” said Aveline, still recovering from the sudden laughter. “A _ballerina._ Did you rebel on purpose, Hawke?”

Hawke made a snide little noise and reached into her bag for another stick of jerky. She snapped the snack in half, tossing the larger portion down to the dog. The dog - a Mabari, collarless and underfed - made a surprised noise and snapped up the second unexpected treat, stub of a tail wagging so hard its hindquarters started shaking.

“Holy shit, look at him go,” Hawke said. “What a good pooch.”

The three of them watched the dog work on its snack in companionable silence for a few moments. Hawke threw down another piece of jerky.

Suddenly, as if realizing something, Carver said “No.”

“Such sudden and unprompted negativity,” said Hawke, rummaging in her bag for more food.

“I say again: _No,_ ” Carver leaned, reaching around Aveline to try and snatch the bag away from Hawke.

Hawke pulled the bag out of her brother's reach, teeth flashing in a wicked grin. “What? I'm just providing a little charity to a distressed neighbor!” She raised her voice, leaning a little in the dog's direction. “Of course, it would be easier to provide for our quadrupedal companion if he were to walk up here and sit with us. That's _entirely_ his own choice, though.”

The dog, after a second of contemplation, got up and began to trot towards the squat stairway that led up the beach to the top of the sea wall. Carver groaned.

“Hawke,” said Aveline, her voice carefully level, “I hope you aren't planning on some kind of... impromptu adoption.”

“Of _course_ not, Aveline,” said Hawke. She pulled more jerky and half of a slightly stale ham sandwich from her bag, setting them in her lap. She looked to the approaching dog, and patted the wall next to her for the dog to sit. When the dog was settled, Hawke held out the sandwich. The dog made it disappear in two bites. “Good lad,” said Hawke. “Sorry it was a bit stale.” The dog made an unconcerned noise. Aveline muttered a curse under her breath.

“ _Hawke...”_

“ _What?_ I am simply being kind to a fellow refugee! It doesn't have to mean anything, Aveline. I'm _just being nice._ ”

“I do not believe you in the slightest,” said Aveline, giving Hawke a disapproving squint that – if the dog hadn't chosen that exact moment to lay its head in Hawke's lap – may have shaken Hawke's resolve. Instead, she laid a hand atop the dog's head and gave the world at large a wholly unapologetic smile.

“What's your name, pal?” Hawke asked the dog, who let out a soft woof in response. She nodded solemnly. “Ah, yes, you can't tell me. Good point. How does 'Redd' sound? Two 'd's, for respectability.”

The dog's tongue lolled out in a doggy grin, appearing to accept the new moniker.

“Hawke, for goodness sake!” Aveline exclaimed. “You can't just adopt a random dog!”

“I'm just asking his _name_ , Aveline! He's a _Mabari._ We can't just call him 'Dog,' that's _terribly_ rude.”

“Just deciding to adopt a damn dog when we don't even have a _house_ is rude, sis,” Carver snapped.

“You two sure are jumping to conclusions.”

“Considering the conclusion is within leaping distance,” said Aveline, “you can imagine how easy it is for us to do so.”

“This lack of trust in my intentions is unprecedented,” Hawke sniffed, scratching behind Redd's ears. Almost immediately it became apparent that the poor thing had fleas, even in this cold. Hawke pulled a face while she picked a fat flea from the dog's fur, crushing it between her thumbnails. “Redd, you need a bath, my friend.”

“And now you're gonna _bathe the dog_ what the fuck is wrong w-” Carver began, but Hawke cut him off, throwing up her hands with an exaggerated sigh.

“I am _just saying_ so because he does, in fact, need a bath! Did I volunteer myself? Did I say _I_ would be the one to bathe him? Did I, in fact, make any mention of acting in the capacity as Master of Baths? No, Carver, I did no such thing. I am _simply_ making polite conversation, with this very fine and gentlemanly dog, who happens to also be on the run from a postmodern mini-apocalypse. Is that okay with you? Am I allowed to make friends?”

Carver glared at her, pointing to the last remaining jerky snack, which Hawke was in the process of unwrapping and feeding to Redd. “You're _feeding him_ like you plan on _keeping him_.”

“The Chant of Light teaches us all to respect our neighbors and be charitable,” Hawke said, and then had to dodge as Carver leaned around Aveline to chuck a fistful of dirty sand at her. “You need to _repent_ for your uncharitable ways, brother!”

“You need to repent for being a fucking nutcase,” Carver grumbled, but the fight seemed to have drained from him already. He sighed, leaning back until he was flat on the ground, legs dangling over the edge of the wall. “You can't keep the dog.”

Hawke grinned, picked another flea, and crushed it. “You can't tell me what to do.”

 

2

 

There _had_ been a flea bath. Redd had patiently allowed Hawke to scrub him down with dish soap and tepid water out back of the crumbling warehouse that served as a makeshift refugee camp. After an hour of work, Redd's fur had a shine just healthy-looking enough to offset the way his ribcage jutted out from under his skin. When confronted by Carver, Hawke had simply shrugged and said if he was going to accuse her of having ulterior motives, she might as well live up to his expectations. He'd upended the tub of dirty water on her and stomped off, her laughter nipping his heels as he went.

Introducing the dog to her mother had gone pretty much exactly as she'd expected: lots of bluster and refusal until she pointed out that, being a Mabari, Redd was consciously aware of the situation. It was an underhanded tactic, and she knew she was playing to each one of her mother's weaknesses with that argument - but it had won and Redd had been allowed to stay on a trial basis. When she'd left the little corner they'd claimed to go have a smoke, Redd had settled at Leandra's feet. Hawke was sure she'd caught a glimpse of her mother reaching down to pat the dog's head. She had quietly congratulated herself for a job well done, then made her way back to the sea wall.

It was quiet now, not that there had been any real bustle along the beach during the day. As she sat she tried to imagine what Gwaren must have been like before the locals had fled and the refugees had begun to pile up. There wasn't much to imagine, really. The Frozen Seas weren't exactly accommodating to tourism even during the hottest Fereldan summers, which weren't very hot to begin with. The fishing here was good enough that a few boats still trudged along the coast to bring their takes to the mostly empty market that opened a few hours each morning. There was a boardwalk not too far to her left where a rusting Ferris wheel – a three-story refurbished road-carnival orphan – turned slowly in the ocean wind, groaning softly to itself as the sun sank below the western horizon. In the opposite direction a small airfield now housed military planes and choppers exclusively; the few small planes for commercial flight had taken off as soon as the Blight hit and hadn't come back.

There was so little left in Gwaren. Most of the shops and houses were boarded up, but for a handful of minor business and a single Big Box grocery store along the main street. Some of the houses closer to the wharf were now occupied by squatting refugees and displaced soldiers waiting to be shuffled back into the rank and file. There would be no second push for Ostagar. News reports had declared it lost, with Lothering soon to follow. Now all the troops had to do was wait for was directions to where they would stand as a living wall against the blight as it oozed from the deep roads to all corners of the map.

Hawke lit a clove for herself and settled once more on the sea wall, dangling her feet. Stars slowly picked their places in the creeping darkness above the water. They kept their silence, and she hers, until the precise, even beat of Aveline's footfalls reached her ears. Hawke scooted over to allow Aveline room to sit. For a few moments they sat together and looked out over the dark waves under the darkening sky.

“Nevarra's announced they're closing their borders to refugees,” Aveline said, her voice so level and professional that Hawke could hardly tell that Aveline was clenching her teeth. “Antiva and Rivain can't be that far behind. Most of the Free Marches have declared themselves closed now, as well.” She sighed. “There are just too many people fleeing.”

Hawke took a drag from the clove, exhaling slowly as she processed this. Then she gave Aveline a thin smile. “There's always Tevinter.”

“I don't think any of us have the personality type to be a slave,” Aveline said darkly, crossing her arms. Her back was straight as a rod, chin up, jaw clenched. “Kirkwall hasn't made an announcement, yet. Ostwick is still open to refugees, and Starkhaven has announced they'll take anyone, no questions.”

“Second thoughts about Kirkwall?”

“Third and fourth thoughts as well,” said Aveline, shaking her head. “I've never been this unsure about anything in my life.”

“Well, it's not exactly an ideal situation to be in,” Hawke began, but Aveline cut her off.

“It's not just about the situation. There's... well. There's _you_ , for starters.”

“Me?”

Aveline went quiet. Her chin had dropped, and when Hawke glanced over, Aveline made no effort to make eye contact. The silence that stretched between them lasted long minutes before Aveline finally spoke again.

“Why did you pull that stunt with the dog, Hawke? Surely you know better than to just... It's... _Maker_ , Hawke, we're running from _demons_ and you stopped to get a _pet?_ Why?!”

Hawke looked at the glowing end of her clove, thinking as she did about the terrifying stretch of miles between here and the slowly receding possibility of safety. There was no guarantee they'd be able to stay in Kirkwall even if they made it there alive; Gamlen was unreachable, and if there was anyone else she could have called for help, Leandra had long ago lost their number. Hawke had put the last of the money they could spare into buying them passage on the next ferry, but after that, there was no planning she could do that wasn't desperate improvisation. Ahead of them there lay only dreaded uncertainty, and behind...

“It's not just for the dog's sake, or mine,” she said, tapping the ash from her clove before taking another contemplative drag. “I have a feeling that wherever we go from here, there's going to be a lot of scrapping for whatever we need. Mom can't fight; Carver and I can't be there to watch her all the time. Even the dumbest Mabari is smart as hell; Redd seems to be on the more intelligent side of the spectrum. He knows he'll be fed and well taken care of if he takes care of us.”

“So you got him for security? To watch your mother?”

“In part, yeah. Not to mention, after everything that's happened, they need someone around for comfort. What better than a big, friendly dog?”

Another pause. Aveline said, “What about you, Hawke?”

“Ah, I'm fine. I can deal.”

“That's not what I mean. Why not give them comfort yourself?”

“They don't want me,” Hawke said, the words flying out before she could stop herself. Aveline took a breath to reply, but Hawke held up a hand to stop her. “I don't mean that like how it sounds,” she lied, “I mean that I'm absolutely shit at giving comfort to people. I never know what to say and almost always end up trying to joke the situation away, and that makes it _worse_. Trust me, the dog is better. He's got a genetic predisposition towards being comforting.”

“He also has a genetic predisposition towards taking off a man's limb with a single bite,” Aveline said pointedly.

“He's a security blanket with a built in defense system. You can't buy anything better at the supermarket, trust me.”

Aveline seemed to accept the explanation, letting out a slow, unhappy sigh. “I suppose that's not an entirely unreasonable way to look at things,” she said finally. Hawke gave her a lopsided smile.

“You must think I'm an idiot.”

Aveline shook her head. “No, I don't think you're an idiot. Probably about as crazy as a single person can be while still functioning, and frightfully manipulative, but you certainly aren't stupid.”

“Huh. That's fair,” said Hawke. She took a final drag from the clove, spending the last of it before she crushed out the cherry, flicking the butt away. As she exhaled, she looked up to the sky, and made a decision.

“Giselle,” she said. It came out softer than she'd intended, more shy that she'd have liked, almost lost under the surf and the groans of the distant Ferris wheel.

“What?”

“Maker never makes things easy,” Hawke muttered before declaring, “My name is Giselle. Giselle Marian Hawke.”

Aveline turned to stare at her, peering at Hawke's face with such scrutiny she felt like Aveline's eyes were literally peeling away layers of her skin. Hawke smiled, sheepishly.

“ _Giselle Marian Hawke,_ ” Aveline repeated, her face breaking into a mystified grin. “Is your real given name?”

“Yeah, don't wear it out or anything,” Hawke muttered. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking away and hoping Aveline wouldn't ask the usual follow up question of-

“So, do you actually dance, or does your mother just really love ballet?”

Hawke sighed. Her shoulders sagged. She then stood, raised up on her toes, and performed a simple, though well-executed, pirouette. She ended with a deep bow that was only slightly wobbly. “I took dance for about ten years, usually at knifepoint with mom guarding the door in case I tried to escape,” she said, folding back down to sit. Aveline gave her a polite round of applause.

“That's not a skill to be ashamed of, Hawke,” said Aveline, grinning. “Not exactly one I'd have _expected_ , but certainly not shameful.”

“I'm not ashamed of it or anything, it's just... Not really me.” She swung her feet out to look at her boots. The black leather had been cracked, warped, and stained from years of hard use. The laces were mismatched and the soles had been worn thin, though not yet thin enough that they would have to be trashed. They’d walked with her in and out of cities and towns, over the Hinterlands and through recent earthly Hell. They were by now so molded to her feet the idea of breaking in another pair was nearly unthinkable. “Slippers just don't fit.”

“But boots do,” said Aveline. Hawke nodded, and once again they settled into companionable silence. After a few moments Aveline asked, “What did you do before you left Lothering?”

Hawke looked at her sideways, and after a moment forced a smile. “Nah, I already let you have one secret for free,” she said. She pushed herself up to stand again, then held out her hand. Aveline took it; Hawke pulled her to her feet.

“Another mystery for another night?” Aveline asked, smiling in a way that was, perhaps, a little more friendly than the smiles from before.

“You already unlocked my tragic history of dance, Aveline,” said Hawke. “If I don't have any other secrets for you to poke at, you might get bored and run off, and then what will I do?”

“Cheeky,” Aveline sighed. She turned towards the warehouse where they'd staked their little claim. “Coming back in?”

Hawke shook her head. “No, I think I'll walk around a bit more. Give mom some more time to consider forgiving me for the dog.”

Aveline nodded, raised a hand in farewell, and then headed towards the warehouse. Then she stopped, turning just enough to look at Hawke over her shoulder.

“...He's a good dog, Hawke. Your choices are questionable, but in that, you chose well.” Then she turned on her heel and marched back towards civilization, her silhouette vanishing into the long, dark shadows that led down the wharf.

 

Hawke watched her go. She remained there long after Aveline had disappeared, waiting for the heavy, excited flutter behind her heart to calm down. She hadn't expected the sensation, the weird delight at having earned approval from Aveline but it was there, buoying up above the swampy cocktail of negative emotion that had seeped its way through the inside of her until she'd felt like she was all but drowning.

She knew logically that hanging any hope on Aveline staying with them after they reached Kirkwall was stupid bordering on senseless. Something that could have been the start of a friendship was forming shakily out of the circumstances that had forced them together, but Hawke doubted it would last. Fire-forged friendships were rarely sustainable and eventually would flicker and die just as it had sparked. Aveline would move on. Jokes aside, secrets or no, Aveline was smart enough to not stay involved with an Apostate.

Hawke turned towards the boardwalk, empty and still under the cloud-cluttered starlight. It wasn't much of a boardwalk; just a handful of boarded up restaurants, stores, and an arcade huddled together under the Ferris wheel's skeletal shadow. A single spotlight kept the place from being wholly dark. The wheel turned slowly in the coastal wind; next to it Hawke could see the charred ruins of a carousel that had been left to rot. Some kind of electrical fire had melted the central pavilion, scattering the plastic molded horses and other fantastic beasts. They tilted drunkenly, impaled on their twisting poles; galloping shadows stretched across the boardwalk to meet her, desperate to escape the ruin of the old ride.

 _I can relate,_ she thought, stepping up the boardwalk ramp to the Ferris wheel. She climbed over the waist-high fence that separated the ride from the boardwalk proper to the boarding platform. She took a moment to check that her bootlaces were tied tightly, then flexed her injured hand. Aveline had insisted she let an army medic look at the wound on her palm, now redressed properly. It was healing, though not quickly.

“This is probably a bad idea,” she said aloud, resting one hand on the wheel's scaffolding. It was definitely a bad idea, but no response came out of the darkness. There was no gentle voice to say 'no.'

Hawke hauled herself up the wheel, climbing hand over hand, ignoring the bright stab of pain that came when she put pressure on her wounded hand. By the time she reached the wheel's slowly tilting apex she had sweated through her shirt and her jacket was starting to feel stifling and heavy. Her hand burned with pain; the blood pounded in her ears.

She stood, one arm hooked around a spoke, feet planted in the junction where the scaffolding gave way to a passenger car. Behind and below her the black ocean churned; ahead of her the few flickering lights of the town sketched a somber outline against the distant hills leading inland. She watched as the headlights of a small caravan of army vehicles as they patrolled along the city limits, scanning the roads for survivors or darkspawn.

The wheel tilted slowly; she readjusted herself to stay at its apex, sinking down to fold herself in the cats cradle of iron bars. She curled her uninjured hand around her wounded palm, pressing her thumb against the thick pad of bandages. The pain was a constant throb now, a low and comforting buzz that sharpened the fading edges of the world so she could think through the painful parts of her that didn't – that _couldn't_ – bleed.

“It was exactly what it sounded like,” she confessed. All the childish, terrified pain of her earlier words melted down as she massaged pain into her hand. “They _don't_ want me. They want you, and you aren't here to help them. All they have is me, and I'm not enough.”

How could you let her run off like that?!

Maker, _how_? She was better than this, wasn't she? Faster? Stronger? Leandra had screamed the accusations at her once the shock had eroded down to blind, angry grief, and the rage stormed in, demanding to know why the fate had favored one daughter over the other...

If she closed her eyes, she could just imagine Bethany standing under the wheel, overcome by the galloping shadows of the dead carousel, looking up at her with that worried face, ready to nag Hawke back down from her perch to where it was safe. She kept her eyes closed, squeezing them shut against a flood of tears, willing the specter of her sister away. “I can't do what you can,” she muttered, squeezing her hands into fists. “I can't heal anything. I can't _help_ , I can't.”

“ _I can't believe you!_ ” Bethany laughing, arms around her shoulders, her voice whispering from the fade, caught on the thorns of Hawke's memories like scraps of cloth on barbed wire. “ _Come on, Ellie, all you do is fight and break things and tease people!”_

“That's all I'm good at,” Hawke said, a bitter laugh bubbling up behind the tears. Bethany would cluck at her and call her all kinds of nice words for stupid, telling her how wrong she was. That for everything she broke she would always build something better in its place.

But there was no Bethany to tell her that now, no tether of her sister's arms to ground her.

There was just the darkness, and the cold, empty moan of the wind as the wheel turned, slowly bringing her back to earth.

 

3

 

Hawke awoke to an unfamiliar wet sensation on her face, and the unpleasant smell of dog breath greeting her nose. She groaned, tried to throw a hand over her face, but was intercepted by the slimy wetness of an overenthusiastic tongue, attached to an overenthusiastic dog, which was overenthusiastically trying to wake her up from sleep that she desperately wanted to not be woken up from.

“Why are you trying to make me regret picking you up,” she grumbled, turning her face into her thin pillow, moving her head around in some kind of effort to wipe off the slobber. Redd let out a soft 'boof' and stuck his nose up against her ear. Hawke sighed. “What time is it?”

“Wuff,” said the dog.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” said Hawke.

“ _Bwoof._ ”

“I _just_ went to sleep.” She cracked open an eye, peering at Redd, whose tongue lolled out, accompanied by a cloud of dogbreath that made Hawke sit straight up in her cot. “What a _funk_ , dog. However, you make an excellent point and I should probably get packed and ready to go.” It would be about that time, after all. She passed a hand over her face, then winced as a shot of unexpected pain lanced up her arm. Glaring at her palm as if she hadn’t been the one to cause that hurt in the first place, Hawke flexed her fingers to ease the sting. A bag - _her_ bag – was dropped suddenly on the cot beside her. She jumped, guiltily shoving her hand under her pillow, then turned to grin over her shoulder at Carver.

“Baby brother! Good morning,”

Carver gave her an exasperated look. From his face he had probably slept about as well as she had done. His hair was a cowlick mess – or rather, _dog_ lick mess – and the dark circles under his eyes were far more pronounced that she liked. But he seemed alert, and that was something.

“Mom and Aveline are waiting at the dock; the ferry's gonna start boarding soon,” he said, shouldering his own bag. “You're packed; you're welcome.”

“Thanks,” she said, but he had already turned and was heading to the door. Looking sideways at Redd, she received a happy dog smile in response. “There are no morning people in this family,” she said sternly, sliding her arms through her pack's straps. She rolled off the cot, shoved her feet into her boots, and beckoned for Redd to follow her out of the warehouse.

The Docks were crowded by the time Hawke and Redd managed to catch up with with the others. Aveline waved from where she stood next to another soldier, who was in the process of examining Leandra's ID, and the tickets.

“You got in late,” Aveline said as Hawke approached. Hawke shoved a hand into her pocket and pulled out her ID, handing it to the waiting soldier, who compared it to the ticket Leandra held out.

“Couldn't sleep. Decided to walk around a bit,” Hawke lied, taking her ID back after the soldier gave her the clear.

“You've hardly slept since-” Aveline began, but was cut off as the Ferry's foghorn blasted out a single long, droning note. The soldier that had processed their identification stood up, pulled a bullhorn from his hip to announce boarding order. Aveline grimaced, giving Hawke a 'we are not done' look before she turned to take her place in line.

The Ferry, emblazoned with the name ' _BADGER'_ , was not meant for the work it had been doing the last few months. A 410-foot carferry that spent most of its time tooling along the coast at about 18 miles per hour had no business pushing any further out to sea, and that hard use had begun to show heavily on the ship's hull. Hawke had nabbed an information pamphlet when she'd bought their tickets, and now that she saw the thing... well, she didn't necessarily feel as though she'd been _lied_ to, but the picture on the pamphlet had clearly been taken sometime at least two decades before she'd been born.

The pamphlet, which she pulled out of her back pocket to consult again, boasted the ferry's engines and propellers as triumphs of engineering. It made sure to mention the 40 staterooms, the fine dining facilities, and Various Entertainment Areas, including a TV room and an arcade. Walking up the grided iron stairs from the carport to the passenger areas, however, provided a slightly different vista than the retro-faded photographs advertised.

The ship had been worn heavily by the choppy waters of the Waking Sea, and had clearly lost a lot of the kitchy glitz that the pamphlet had promised. While it could hold a complement of about 60 crewmen on top of 600 passengers at full capacity; there seemed to be few crew members present who weren't strictly there to keep the thing running. About a hundred refugees and a handful of cars piled on top of that did nothing to offset the feeling of abandonment about the place. If she'd been feeling charitable, Hawke would have called the ship quirky in a fun, run down sort of way. Since she wasn't, the old thing simply seemed sad, broken-down, and ripe for scuttling.

“We'll be fine,” she said to no one in particular. Next to her, Redd gave a snort that sounded almost like dogspeak for 'of course we will.' Hawke smiled and patted the dog's head, giving him a thorough scratch behind the ears as they were sorted and shuffled with the rest of the refugees. It would be a long trip, on this moldering boat. But they would be fine.

They would have to be.

 

4

 

Hawke stood at the _Badger's_ bow, arms crossed and feet braced shoulder width apart. Ahead of her jet black cliffs lay low on the horizon, crowned by steel and glass that glittered harshly in the early morning light.

She'd heard people call Kirkwall 'The White City of Chains.' From here it looked like a diamond on black velvet, cold and beautiful and anything but inviting, but after two weeks caught in either the numbing cold of the Frozen Seas or the bucking chaos of the Waking Sea, the thought of dirt under her feet brought Hawke close to tears of relief. It was _land,_ solid land, only an hour away.

“I never thought I'd see those cliffs again,” came a murmur from behind her. Hawke tilted her head, uncrossing her arms to put one around her mother's shoulder as Leandra approached. The cold breeze whipped over the deck, spraying them with salt water, carrying the sound of distant rattling chains. Leandra shivered; Hawke squeezed her close. “I still can't reach Gamlen.”

The ship's crew had been as accommodating as they could be, given the circumstances, and every day Leandra used the ship's satellite phone to attempt a connection with her brother. Leandra's growing desperation was by now almost as suffocating as it was contagious. Carver and Hawke had found renewed kinship in finding interesting ways to keep Leandra's mind occupied; Aveline had been unbelievably supportive of all three of them. Now however, there were no more distractions. Only the great city looming in the distance.

“I'll figure something out,” said Hawke. In a city like Kirkwall, someone like her could certainly find a way to survive, if nothing else. She'd survived in Redcliff, she would do so here, even carrying her family along with. Leandra made a soft noise – whether of disbelief or hope Hawke couldn't quite tell.

_It doesn't matter. I'll figure something out, or I'll damn well die trying._

 

5

 

_If there is a less welcoming place in the world, take me there, because Maker, I won't believe it until I see it._

Kirkwall loomed. The diamond in velvet simile Hawke had indulged in earlier had proven a nasty, mean-spirited lie hiding a vicious truth that grinned down at her from the great glass and steel towers that crowned the black cliffs now closing in around them. If she craned her neck up to look, she could see the beautiful villas and spires of Kirkwall's Hightown district, crouching on the cliffs above the docks like gilded vultures. The sheer cliff faces were pockmarked all the way down with gaps that belched pale, greenish smoke. The smog hovered like a shroud over the docks, obscuring a sprawling mess of buildings that stretched along the coastline. That, Leandra had said - making no effort to hide her distaste - was Lowtown, now bigger and presumably much fuller than when she'd left Kirkwall decades earlier. Hawke agreed that the place wouldn't suffer much from being firebombed right off the map, but the bleak tumble of ramshackle buildings was nothing compared to the Gallows.

Hawke didn't succumb easily to nausea, but as soon as the great tower had come into view she'd had to fight the urge to vomit, out of spite if not actual illness. If Hightown was a vulture, _this_ was the beast it scavenged from.

First were the chains. The massive iron links anchored the Gallows into the Waking Sea, reaching like greedy talons for the ships that pushed single-file through the narrow strip of water that led to the Docks. Then, the hunched, weeping statues of tormented slaves; their massive shoulders bent in endless, futile sorrow. A testament to the city's illustrious history, and the efforts of whatever conscienceless creature had decided that preserving the ancient statues instead of pitching them into the sea was a sound model for public beautification. Behind them, the ancient visages of Tevene Gods or Slavers or both leered down, greedily welcoming all who would be crushed under their marble heels.

Hawke suppressed the urge to shiver as the boat passed through the first gate and into Gallows. You didn't have to be a mage to feel the oppressive weight of Templar scrutiny in a place like this. Being a mage simply made being terrified easier.

They'd spent hours – long, frustrating hours – waiting at the docks to hear the all-clear to disembark. The call had come, refugees had been shuffled from the boat to a low Gallows courtyard that had been cordoned off with pylons and rent-a-fences. Tired looking men and women in the uniform of Kirkwall's City Guard ushered refugees through the gauntlet of fences and identification checkpoints, only to lead them out again into the courtyard, “For Processing.” Groups of people filtered through the place at a steady clip, only to be poured out at the starting point, no closer to Kirkwall than before.

“This is ridiculous,” Aveline muttered, pacing alongside one of the fences. “Are they even letting _anyone_ in?”

“Doesn't look like it,” answered Carver, who had taken up a shady spot under a weeping slave statue. “Why don't you ask the guy in charge?” The comment was clearly meant to be snide, but Aveline ignored the barb. She squared up her shoulders, then looked over at Hawke. Hawke shrugged.

“It couldn't hurt, actually. Redd, keep an eye on Carver,” she added, smirking as her brother scrambled to his feet to follow.

“I don't need the _dog_ to babysit me!” Carver snapped, shoving ahead of them. Redd followed at a more somber pace. Leandra sighed at her children and fell in, with Aveline and Hawke bringing up the rear.

A big man with a sour face in a rumpled Guard uniform seemed to be the one directing the flow of foot traffic through the gates to the city proper. Very few were being allowed through, and all of them had the look of native Kirkwallers home on business, complete with – if she wasn't guessing wrong – what looked like entrance visas. Many more were turned away, back to the Gallows’ main courtyard.

It didn’t take a genius to be able to figure what the score would be if they tried to get any answers here. Hawke’s patience had begun to fray somewhere back around the time the Ferry had run out of hot food - ten days into their two-week journey. Now it was hanging by a last brave thread, her bullshit tolerance running at an all-time low. She pushed ahead, sliding past her family to take point, shoulders forward and head down like a person-shaped battering ram.

As they approached, the Guardsman sneered, and pointed a finger directly in Hawke's face. “You get back with the rest of your lot, Fereldan,” he began, but Hawke sidestepped his finger and stepped up until they were nearly nose to nose. The Guardsman swallowed what he was about to say, gaping at her in shock. He clearly wasn't the kind of man used to having someone get in his face, much less a scrawny-looking refugee woman.

“Where's your boss?” Hawke demanded. He flapped his mouth ineffectually. Hawke sneered and shoved forward, forcing him to take a step back. “Well?”

“Y-you can't just-” He began, then yelped when Hawke took another hard step forward. He stumbled, this time his back hit a fence.

“I _am_ just. You point me to the Guy In Charge, and I'll get out of your face. You do _not_ want to fight me.”

The Guardsman gawked at her, but had the presence of mind enough to let the madwoman in front of him be someone else's problem. He redirected his finger towards a staircase leading to an upper courtyard. “You want the man in charge, you talk to Captain Ewald,” he snarled. “Now get out of my face.”

“Gladly,” said Hawke, then turned on her heel, motioning to the others to follow. The Guardsman muttered something under his breath, but did nothing else to impede them, instead snapping insults at another Guardsman further down the fence.

Aveline drew up alongside Hawke as she took the stairs. “Hawke, you could have just asked him,” she began. Hawke scoffed.

“It took you hours with that Soldier back in Gwaren, and that was with someone who had a reason to respect you. I'm not fucking around with guys like that just to get a simple answer.”

Aveline made a disapproving noise, but said nothing else. Instead she squared her shoulders and motioned for Hawke take the lead.

 

It became evident that they weren't the only ones with designs on the Guy In Charge fairly quickly. A handful of dirty, angry looking men had gathered in the upper courtyard and were currently crowding a tall Guardsman in a Captain's uniform.

“Let us through, you son of a bitch! We're not staying in this pit!” Shouted one of the lead men. Hawke pulled up short, motioning to the others to do the same.

“Then get back on your ship and leave,” the Captain sighed, clearly having been through this exchange before. “There's no more room in Kirkwall for refugees.”

“The fuckin ship's already gone!” Another man snapped. “We already paid to come _here_!”

The Captain rolled his eyes. “If you do not have the means to leave the city, you are welcome to stay in the Gallows until we have word of transport back to Ferelden or wherever else. Kirkwall is _full._ There is _no more room.”_

“You've been letting some people in,” Hawke cut in, coming up behind the group. Aveline and Carver followed close on her heels. “What about people here on business? Or visiting family?”

There was a second of icy silence as the Captain turned his gaze on her. He didn't sneer, but she could feel how hard he wanted to. “If anyone has _business_ in the city that would be coming in through here, they would already have the necessary Passage Visa to do so. And if you're telling me you have _family_ in the city, you'd better be ending that statement with 'and they're right over there waiting for us.'”

“Unless a guy named Gamlen Amell suddenly decided to pop out of the ether, that's going to be a no,” said Hawke. Much to her surprise, there was a spark of recognition on the Captain's face.

“Gamlen Amell?”

Hawke gestured to herself and Carver. “Our Uncle.”

The Captain snorted. “Sorry to hear that. The only Gamlen Amell I know is a weaselly little bastard drunk with a bad gambling habit.” After a beat he added, “Son of a bitch owes me money.”

Hawke sighed inwardly. She could feel Aveline's stare blistering her back as she reached for her wallet, but before she could drop the last of her cash on a bribe, one of the irritable crowd stepped in and grabbed her arm.

“Oh no you don't, you _bitch,_ we've been trying to bribe this motherfucker for _four days_ and you can't just-”

The wet _crunch_ of Hawke's fist meeting and viciously breaking the man's nose echoed across the suddenly quiet courtyard. He stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose, raised his hands to cover it, and _then_ finally managed an agonized scream. His companions crowded around him, shouting and shoving him back away from Hawke, who put herself between them and the Captain. One of them, a stupid-looking blond who probably ate bicycle chains for breakfast, stepped forward with his fists raised. Hawke held out a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“You don't want to fight me,” she said. He was taller than her, and weighed at least 20 pounds more. But he looked slow, and tired, and like his last hot meal had been a microwaved pop tart. “Look man, neither of us has anything to lose, but you do _not_ want to fight me.”

His response was simple, if inelegant. He threw a left hook, so telegraphed he may well have shouted LEFT FIST PUNCH! As he did. Hawke stepped under his swing, and her fist flew again. One, two, three punches popped against his mouth, knocking his head back like it was on a spring hinge. He took a step, then collapsed at her feet, mouth gushing blood much like his companion's nose had done.

For a hopeful second, she thought that might end it. But rage and desperation were excellent motivators. The rest of the group – six in all, it looked like – lunged forward very nearly as one.

The fight was brief, but intense. One man reached Hawke in time to crack his sternum against the sharp propulsion of her knee. He fell back, colliding with another man who was in the process of meeting the business side of Aveline's elbow. Carver swung in behind Aveline to take a third man into an armlock, wrestling him to the ground. Behind Hawke, the Captain began to shout for reinforcements. Hawke sidestepped a swing at her head from the man who had met her knee, then gave him a swift introduction to a sharp left jab. Someone's fist hit home against her chin. She staggered, then lunged head-first into the fist's owner. The top of her head hit something soft. She heard the desperate sucking noise of someone suddenly out of breath. There was a thud and then... the sudden calm of victory. Five of the six men lay on the ground in various states of distress, while the sixth was still on his feet, swaying slightly, fists still raised like he planned on doing something with them.

“He's out,” said Aveline, passing a hand in front of his face as more Guardsmen piled onto the courtyard.

Hawke rubbed the top of her head, giving Aveline a little grin, then glanced over at the Captain, who was staring at the scene with an expression of shock that would have been hilarious in any other circumstances.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“So-” Hawke began, but the Guardsman who she had bullied earlier shoved her aside, stepping up to the Captain.

“Sir! Are you all right? This crazy bitch-” he began to gesture at Hawke, but the Captain pushed his arm back down.

“I am _fine,_ no thanks to you. Get a damned medic here and get those men into custody,” snapped the Captain, waving his arm at the mess in front of him. Then he pointed to Hawke. “And apologize to the lady, you bloody rude imbecile!”

The Guardsman stared at his Captain, then at Hawke, and then back to the Captain. “I... wha?”

The Captain leveled him with a look so intense Hawke had to cover her mouth to keep herself from laughing. “You'll do as I say if you know what's good for you, Guardsman Wright,” he said.

Guardsman Wright snapped to attention, then awkwardly turned to Hawke and bobbed his head once. “S-sorry about that, Ma'am,” he said, and then scurried off.

Hawke smiled benevolently at the retreating Guardsman. When she transferred that smile to the Captain, his return grin was far more beneficent than when she had simply been about to bribe him.

“I see you're a lady that knows her business,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “At least better than your uncle knows his. I'll see about rounding up Gamlen. You stick around here for a few hours and we'll see what can be done.”

“We are much obliged to you, Captain,” said Hawke. A handful of Guardsman and a Medic moved past them then, swarming the unfortunate men who had made themselves her opponents. She stepped around the tableau, hooked an arm each around Aveline and Carver's shoulders, and strolled back towards the stairs, where Leandra waited with a sour frown on her face, and a hand atop Redd's head.

Hawke leaned closer to Aveline as they walked. “That's secret number two,” she said.

“Secret... what?”

“You wanted to know what I did before leaving Lothering.” Hawke grinned wickedly. “Now you know. I used to _fight._ ”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

BONUS MATERIAL

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TUMBLR USER [IDONTUNDERSTANDWHYDOYOUNEEDMYURL](http://idontunderstandwhydoyouneedmyurl.tumblr.com/)!!!!!! 

I KNOW IT'S NOT TIL TOMORROW BUT I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL. XOXOXOXOXOX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME BACK NERDS, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
> 
> As you are all aware, Undefeated is all fun and games and there is nothing sad happening in this story, ever. Now, with that mean-spirited joke out of the way, let me take a moment to soap box at you.
> 
> Today in the US, we're celebrating a holiday of questionable origin, but these days the generally accepted reason for Thanksgiving is to gather with your family (biological, surrogate, or what have you) and give thanks for the things that went well for you in the last year, and hope for good or better things to come in the year ahead. 
> 
> I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I have a home, steady income, good friends, a rockin' family, and a life that is relatively free of extreme stress. There will be turkey on the table tonight and I'm going to eat myself sick with some of my closest and best friends. I am one of the lucky ones, and well aware of this. Some of you may be having a similar day, others not so much. Whatever your holiday brings you, I hope this new chapter will bring you fun diversion if and when you need it.
> 
> But with all that said, I also would like to reach out to my readers and friends on a more serious note. This is a story about refugees fleeing from a crisis they none of them can fight, much less even begin to comprehend. While it's all fun and games here in the fandom, there are real refugees, right now, who are suffering through circumstances much like the ones I've barely skimmed over in this fic. My readers, if you have the time and ability, please keep the real life people who are suffering through these hard times in your thoughts as you give thanks today. And if you can, please go to https://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=content.view&cpid=1523#.VlcIfnarTIU if you are able to assist in donating to refugees currently fleeing Syria. Charitynavigator is a great resource for giving during a time of great and desperate need. 
> 
> Anyway, that's all for now. See you next time!


	5. Chapter Two - Options

Chapter Two: Options

  


1

  


The first day ended much in the same way it began: waiting with silent, hopeful anxiety. As a sign of gratitude, Captain Ewald had allowed them to relocate to the small outlying Officer’s barracks between the Gallows and the shipyard. Under scrutiny, of course. While Hawke’s heroism in the face of desperation had earned her some respect among the Guardsmen, there was still protocol to be observed. Hawke didn’t mind in the least; she’d rather have a crew of tired, agitated Guards who liked her already hovering around than try sleeping in the Gallows with the rest of the refugees. One Guardsman, a genial type of guy whose face would have been more memorable if it hadn’t be completely outclassed by his sideburns, offered his locker for them to stow their gear. They wouldn’t be able to stay but to sleep, but at least they wouldn’t have to keep hauling their bags around. Hawke, having felt the weight of the spellbooks in her bag increase every second they were within sight of a Templar, was more than grateful to take him up on the offer.

Leandra hadn’t scolded her about the brawl. She hadn’t needed to. Projecting an aura of icy disapproval worked better than any words ever could have, but Leandra’s cold shoulder never lasted long in the best of situations, and now being objectively the _worst_ of situations meant that by the end of the night she’d begun to thaw.

“Thank you,” she’d said, pulling Hawke into an embrace. It was brief, tight, more desperate than loving or thankful, but Hawke clung back nonetheless.

Sleep did not come easily. They’d been crammed into a four-bunk room, with beds just wide enough to fit an average sized adult human. The rattle and fuss of the docks cut through the building’s uninsulated brick walls like a churning drumbeat. Hawke lay awake in a bottom bunk, face turned towards the wall, counting bricks to keep from jumping at every new sound. These weren’t the familiar noises of Redcliff’s busy city streets, or the quiet hush of suburban Lothering. Sure, it was a relief from the dull, incessant drone of the ferry’s engine and the wet slap of waves and the hum of desperation that clung to every person packed into that ship… but from here the water sounded like the march of distant unseen armies.

Hawke drifted, visions of blood-flecked yellow teeth and hollow, lightning-scarred eyes drifted with her, riding her shadow into sleep.

  


2

  


The second day, it rained.

Lingering in the Gallows had already lost its appeal, but the steady drip of a lazy coastal rain didn’t improve matters by much. There were fewer Templars around, but those who were on patrol had expressions as gloomy as the clouds above. Hawke took up residence against a wall that was just out of the way enough that the patrols would consider it too much trouble to go and harass her out of the spot. They didn’t like loiterers, especially refugee loiterers, but apparently enough of them liked getting soaked even less.

Refugees left over from the day before were huddled under some hastily constructed yard tents that did little to keep the rain off, and nothing for the wind that occasionally gusted through the courtyard. From her spot, Hawke was out of the elements, but not beyond the reach of a few dirty looks. Still there was no sign of Gamlen.

_Arriving immediately wouldn't be too soon,_ she thought, staring at the sky to distract herself from the sounds of Templar jackboots clacking along the stone courtyard. It was hard to focus on what little of the sky she could see. What wasn't blocked by the high walls of the Gallows and the windowless stone and concrete slab that was the circle tower had been stained by the smog of the city proper, obscuring even the rainclouds above. From here she couldn't see much more of Kirkwall than the tops of a few skyscrapers poking out of the misty cover. At least it was warmer here than in Ferelden, even with the rain and the ocean spray.

Hawke took her gaze from the sky to glance around the courtyard, spotting Aveline.She'd been making her own rounds of the place, making nice with the guards stationed around the area. Templars had watched Aveline closely as they paraded between the short road that led to the Circle's entrance and the rented fences and flimsy tents that kept the refugees cloistered, but none approached her directly. Most of them seemed to be content with harassing the few refugees who were being shuttled to new ships, pawing through the sparse belongings a few people had managed to hold on to. She couldn’t hear the Templars’ explanations for the abrupt searches, but she could imagine.

‘Looking for signs of any escaped Mages.’

‘Never too careful about possible Apostates.’

‘No one is above suspicion.’

The Templars hadn’t hauled anyone away yet – not that Hawke had seen – but she'd spied one or two small satchels being surreptitiously dropped over the side of the courtyard walls into the churning surf below. She'd bet money there were bottles lyrium in those packs, if nothing else. She clenched her hands. She was itching to be out of this place, away from the Templars, _anywhere_ but here.

In spite of that, she put on a smile as Aveline approached, putting the fear on hold long enough to appreciate the other woman’s presence.

“How's the hand?” Aveline asked, crossing her legs to sit on the flagstones next to her.

“Still a bit stiff,” Hawke said, flexing her fingers to test whether or not she was lying. The cut still pulled, but she was satisfied with the lack of any real pain. She’d gotten more than enough out of that wound. “Any news from the Cap?”

“Nothing yet. Your Uncle is a difficult man to find, apparently.” Somehow Aveline managed to keep her voice steady, though the look on her face was one of rapidly diminishing patience. Carver and Leandra had opted to try and sleep the wait off back at the barracks, while Hawke and Aveline took turns scanning the courtyard for what Hawke would be was a familiar face.

Hawke let her head drop casually onto her arms as a group of Templars marched past them towards the city gate. Beside her, Aveline breathed easy, giving the passing Templars the polite nod of comrades in service, if not in cause.

When they were gone, Hawke asked, "What was Wesley like?"

The question startled a laugh out of Aveline. "Wesley? You _knew_ him, why would you ask?"

"I didn't know him," Hawke said, turning her head just enough to catch Aveline's gaze. "I've only known you for less than a month."

Aveline's laugh vanished, replaced by confusion, and then... ah. Yes, Hawke recognized that expression. The guilt of mismemory, salted with grief. Hawke leaned over, nudging Aveline's shoulder with her own.

"It seems like a lot longer," she said, voice gentler than she'd have let it be for anyone else.

Aveline nodded slowly, and leaned to nudge Hawke back, if only very slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"There are... a lot of Templars here, and he's the only one I've ever spent significant time around." Six hours that felt like six years worth of stress and terror all compressed at once. Hardly significant, in the grand scheme of things, but between the two of them those hours had hung shadows that stretched the time on far, far longer. Hawke chewed on her lip a moment, then glanced back at Aveline. "I... it felt like he was a good person. I guess I'm selfishly asking if you could tell me about a the kind of Templar _you_ would want to be around, so I'm not sitting here thinking about the ones I'm surrounded by."

Aveline sucked in a breath, sitting up a little more straight as she did. She did not look at Hawke. "Oh. I hadn't thought of it like that."

_I'm scared, Aveline. I'm scared of this place and every second we're here is making it harder to breathe. Tell me about a person so I'm not looking for monsters in every face._

"I'm sorry," said Hawke, leaning back away from her crossed arms, letting them drop to her sides. "I know it's hard to... to talk about. It was wrong of me to ask for that." She let her shoulders sag against the wall behind her, sliding down until her back met the flagstones underneath. She folded her hands on her stomach, then settled down to watch the city gates.

Hawke had expected Aveline to leave at that point, make some comment about needing a walk - _she_ would, if someone had asked her a question like that, surely - but Aveline stayed next to her. Arms crossed, face pulled into an expression of deep thought, Aveline remained quiet for long moments before she said, “He was a very thoughtful man. Shy, but very thoughtful.”

“Aveline, you don’t have to,” Hawke began, but Aveline lifted a hand and brushed away her protest.

“It’s fine, Hawke. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already thinking about him.” Aveline sighed, glancing up at the sky. “Wesley was the kind of man where just _being_ around him was comfortable. Not just being in his presence, but being myself. We never stood on pretense, just honesty.” She huffed a little laugh. “Sometimes we’d go days without talking - not for any bad reasons, it was just that there really wasn’t anything that needed to be said. We could exist near each other with ease.”

“Kind of a… hold hands at breakfast thing?”

“How do you mean?”

Hawke smiled a little, closing her eyes to remember the scene Aveline’s description had conjured up in her memory. “Mom and Dad used to sit at the table during breakfast and hold hands. Didn’t say a word to each other; dad would be drinking coffee, mom reading the paper, and they’d just hold hands. I always thought it was kind of silly, but…”

“But it was also very sweet,” Aveline finished. “Yes, it was a little like that.”

“You loved him,” Hawke said.

“Oh yes, very much.”

“I’m sorry, Aveline.” _That he died. That I couldn’t help, that you had to-_

“Thank you, Hawke,” said Aveline, and Hawke felt the brief but comforting pressure of Aveline’s hand around hers.

They settled into silence again, sitting just a little closer together than before.

  


3

  


On the third day, the sun made a brief return at dawn, only to hide behind cloud cover again, leaving Kirkwall under a grey veil. Nearly all the refugees were gone now, left in ships and busses for other parts of the mainland. Only a few remained, huddled together for the last bus making passage to Starkhaven. Still they had no word of Gamlen.

Hawke had once again taken up her station by the wall, gazing at nothing in particular as she waited the hours through, quietly grinding her teeth as her patience eroded along with the day. Red sat at her feet today, a comforting buffer between her and the rest of the Gallows. Leandra and Carver had left to get food from a charity table the Chantry had set up to serve bowls of watered down condensed soup and strictly rationed saltine crackers to the displaced and destitute.  Aveline sat next to Hawke once again, elbows resting on her knees, chin propped on her fists.

“This waiting has to end eventually,” Aveline murmured, lifting her chin at a passing guard, who passed back a vague wave of hello. That was a blessing, at least. News of their little tussle with the other refugees had gotten around; Ewald was well-liked enough that his appreciation for the assist had filtered down through the ranks. Aveline, a consummate soldier, had taken that opportunity to mingle with them, and as such had made a few good acquaintances. None of them seemed too keen to get any closer to Hawke, which suited her just fine. At the very least, Aveline would have somewhere she could turn for work, as soon as the issue of the Visas was eliminated.

Hawke opened her mouth to ask if that was indeed Aveline's plan, but new movement over by the gate leading to the city proper caught her eye.

The man's face – vaguely familiar in the way of all distant family members – had the jaundiced look of a career alcoholic. He walked with his shoulders hunched, enduring the gauntlet of Guards checking his identification with a kind of unhappy determination that made her think of Carver whenever he'd been told to do a chore he'd spent ten times as much effort neglecting than it would have taken to do the chore in the first place. There was no doubt in her mind as he made his way through the gate that this was Gamlen Amell.

Hawke stood, nudging Aveline to do the same. “Don’t look now, I think that’s our man.”

As Aveline rose to her feet, Hawke strode forward, keeping her eyes on the man she was by now definitely sure was Gamlen Amell. He froze in his tracks as she approached, glancing around the courtyard like he expected a group of armed toughs to jump out of the shadows with her. _Paranoid. Okay, not entirely unexpected. I can deal with paranoid._ Hawke put on a grin, and raised a hand above her head in greeting. “Uncle Gamlen?”

The grin must have thrown him off. He blinked, rubbing his chin as he looked Hawke up and down, almost but not quite smiling. “Makers balls, you look just like your father,” he said. “You must be Giselle.”

“I guess I must,” said Hawke, extending her hand to him. Gamlen hesitated only for a second before taking it for a brief shake.  He glanced over Hawke’s shoulder, then around the courtyard, frown firmly in place.

“Where’s your mother?”

Hawke pointed behind him, where Leandra and Carer were waiting, backs to them, in line at the soup table. “Browsing the buffet. Do you want me to-” she began, taking a step towards the line, but Gamlen’s hands shot out, stopping her in her tracks.

“No! No, let her uh, let her get something to eat. We should _talk._ Er,” he yanked his hands back, then gestured at Aveline. “And you are?”

“Aveline’s with us,” Hawke answered. “She came with us from Ferelden. I’m pretty sure Mom’s left you some messages about it?”

Gamlen looked at her with a forcedly casual expression that fell far short of being able to hide the utter despair underneath it, pursing his lips into a manufactured smile. “I’ve… been away from the estate for a while. Didn’t get the voicemail. But uh, I was told there were four. Leandra, you of course, and the twins. I can get four people into the city but-”

“It’s just four,” Hawke cut in.

“Then what is she-”

“Bethany didn’t make it.”

It was surprising how easily the statement had come out, how calm she felt when she said it aloud. Even though the news brought with it the imperceptible but still real cloud of darkening grief, Hawke’s voice and heart remained steady as she watched her uncle process that information. Gamlen closed his eyes, let out a sigh, and nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Hawke forgave him the unspoken ‘that will make things easier’ that latched itself to the end of his words.

“Listen,” said Gamlen, glancing over his shoulder at the soup line. Leandra and Carver had nearly reached the end now. “Once they get back, you and your brother and your friend are going to want to head down _Lean_ Street - see the sign there?” He pointed, Hawke nodded. “Good. Go down there, take the first left you see, it’ll be a dead end road with a big warehouse. In there you’re going to want to talk to a fellow by the name of Meeran-”

“Why are we going to be talking to this Meeran character? Aren’t you going to be taking us into the city?”

Gamlen’s mouth twitched. “I… am providing you with the opportunity to get _yourselves_ into the city. Visas cost money, which I don’t have-”

“Hang about, Mom hasn’t been too clear on the details but she was pretty adamant about the parts where this family is supposed to be loaded,” Hawke interrupted. “Maybe not you _personally_ , but what about the estate?”

“I-”

“Gamlen!” At the sound of his name, he whirled around, nearly colliding with Leandra. She’d handed her bowl to Carver so she could run to her brother, throwing her arms around him in a tight squeeze.

“L-Leandra!” Gamlen, trapped between his sister and his niece, looked like he would rather spontaneously combust than be in this position. He patted Leandra’s back as she sobbed into his shoulder, staring at Hawke with a curious mix of shame and defiance on his face.

_I could tell her,_ she thought, staring back at her Uncle with an utterly calm expression while a hot-cold lump of panic and fury began to whirl around behind her ribcage. _Is that why you took so long to come for us? Because you’re ashamed about being broke?_

“Lean Street, right?” She said, hardening her stare. Gamlen nodded and jerked his chin towards the sign again. Hawke nodded, gestured for Carver to follow, and turned towards the dockside alley.

  


4

  


Hawke led the way down Lean Street, leaving Aveline to fill Carver in on the few details there were to share. She kept her shoulders back, strides long as they passed loitering groups of dock workers, sailors, and the occasional guard. Lean Street was crowded by dingy businesses that catered more to laborers that didn't have the time or money to go further into the city proper. It was a mostly nondescript place, cluttered with garbage and smelling of stale alcohol, fish, and salt. A bar, a crusty looking flophouse, and a convenience store that looked like it hadn't restocked its shelves since sometime around Dragon 10 took up what space there was between a couple of long-abandoned warehouses. Taking the turn as Gamlen instructed brought them around to the back of one of those warehouses. The corrugated metal siding that hadn’t been knocked loose from the building’s steel frame was covered in layers of graffiti tags warring for space against spreading blooms of rust. Heavy plastic tarpaulins - yellowed from age - obscured the warehouse interior from the street.

“Well,” said Hawke, letting her eye get caught by a particularly lewd tag near the warehouse’s side door, “what a charming establishment.”

“Hawke,” Aveline murmured, coming up beside her, “I don’t like the look of this place.”

“Neither do I,” Carver added, followed by a whine from Redd. Hawke nodded.

“I can hardly argue with the group consensus,” said Hawke, “but we don’t have many options here.” She stepped forward and rapped her knuckles on the door. After a moment, the slide for the door’s viewport opened. A single eye - sharp and blue - peered out at them.

“Aye?”

“Gamlen Amell sent us,” said Hawke. “We’re to meet with Meeran.”

“Ain’t heard about it,” the voice sniffed back. Hawke ground her teeth. _Why can’t a single damned thing go easily this week?_

“Coins jingle where I walk, friend. Meeran’ll _want_ to hear about it.”

A snort. “That’s pretty fuckin bold to say, if you’re with Amell.”

“Sent by, not with.” Hawke ground the inside of her teeth against her cheek. Clearly her uncle’s reputation wasn’t exactly sterling. Best to distance herself from him a bit. “My name is Hawke.”

From behind the door came a sudden intake of breath, and then a pause. “...From Redcliff?”

_Oh no. Not that much distance. What has he heard_? Hawke nodded shortly. “The same.”

The viewport slammed shut. Hawke ignored the prickly feeling of Carver and Aveline’s stares on the back of her neck. _How could someone have heard about me way out here? Shit, I think I know what he’d have heard, too. SHIT._

There was a jingle of keys - why they bothered when half the wall was gone she could hardly guess - a series of clicks, and then the door swung open. It was attended by a dwarf, who was looking up at Hawke with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. He thrust out a hand to her. “Worthy,” he said. Hawke gave his hand a firm shake, earning a nod of approval. “I heard about a Hawke that took down Kressler Kane at the Broken Bottle about six months ago. That was you?”

Hawke didn’t heave a sigh of relief,but instead offered the dwarf a friendly, cocky grin. “Yeah, that was me. Tough son of a bitch to take down, I might not’ve gotten him if we’d gone to three rounds.”

Worthy scoffed, waving a hand for them to enter the warehouse. “Didn’t see it myself, got a buddy who has it taped, said you were fuckin scary.” He sniffed, looking her up and further up, then glanced back at Carver, Aveline, and finally Redd. “Just you four, aye? Good, you all just wait inside here and I’ll go talk to the Boss.”

He scurried off, ducking around a long metal shelf that seemed to be there simply to hold up more cracked, yellow sheets of tarp. Hawke let herself relax slightly, just long enough to enjoy a single relieved breath before Carver thwacked her between the shoulder blades.

“Ow! _What,_ Carver?” She spun, raising her arm to block a further flurry of slaps from her brother. “Stop it!”

“What the _shit_ is that all about? Who’s Kressler Kane?!” Carver demanded. Aveline shoved her shoulder in between the warring siblings.

“ _Stop_ , Carver. Hawke, he has a point. What’s all this about?”

Hawke shrugged. “I told you I used to fight in Redcliffe. He just happened to hear of me, is all.” She chewed at her lip a second before adding, “Ssssome of those fights may have been particularly noteworthy?”

“ _How_ noteworthy, Hawke?”

“Noteworthy enough! What is it with you being _popular_ all over the damn place?” Carver sniped. Hawke pulled a face.

“I don’t _know_ how noteworthy, I just did it to get paid. Some of the fights were broadcast on local channels, so I guess if someone was interested enough out here, they could get tapes of the fight, like he said.” Hawke stepped back before Carver could hit her again, this time probably out of pure jealousy than anything else.

Worthy returned, beckoning for them to follow him. “Everything fine? Meeran’s expecting you now. Bit more upbeat about it than he was before, to be sure.” He seemed pleased with himself. Hawke forced on a smile.

“Oh? Why would that be?” _Because I bet you told him aaaaall about me, didn’t you._

“Well, obviously I told him about you,” said Worthy, pushing aside a heavy blue tarp for them to pass. Hawke suppressed a sigh, and stepped through.

The warehouse was… bare. There had been some kind of machine shop here years prior, but the machinery had been stripped, as well as the workbenches, tables, and anything that wasn’t bolted down. Shelves made of heavy steel held up what was left of the walls, holding leftover scrap metal and parts for the long-lost machines. A few crates and an abandoned dry-erase board had been dragged together to make a table and seats, around which a small group of people were playing cards. Clearly they hadn't been here long, and didn’t plan to stay. Hawke approached the table, taking in the group.

There was a slim, gorgeous blond woman wearing a well-tailored pantsuit underneath a heavily worn oilcloth jacket. Next to her, a short, pale city Elf with a low ponytail and a receding hairline. A couple of concrete slabs masquerading as large, beefy men hovered around the table, at either side of the man Hawke could readily assume was Meeran.

He had the look of the kind of guy who would make shady deals with people in places like this; a greasy-haired, squint-eyed man who looked like he worked out eight days a week and had been born in a dirty wifebeater felt right at home under the dusty shafts of light that stabbed through the warehouse roof.

“Horse-Face Danny,” said Meeran. Hawke stopped cold in her tracks. The little ball of panic, began to flutter behind her ribs again. _Oh no._

Meeran continued, “Two-Finger Steve, _Both_ of the Hagsney brothers, and Denerim Carl.” He looked up from his cards. Hawke stood still and poised, stance easy despite the painful slamming of her heart. Meeran took his time giving her the once over, then set his cards down. “Got to say, you don’t _look_ like a girl with a five-kill streak, but I’ve been surprised before.”

Hawke heard the sharp intakes of breath behind her, felt the panic ball sizzle out into resignation. “What,” she said, her voice light. “No mention of Kressler Kane? Where _did_ you get that names list?”

Worthy held up his cell phone - a technological brick about half the size of his arm - as he passed her to take his seat, waggling it back and forth in the air. “Called my friend.”

Hawke did her best not to glare at him.

“Kressler Kane didn’t die after running into your fist too many times,” said Meeran. He stood, striding around Hawke to look at her from all angles. If he glanced at Aveline or Carver, he made no comments to them. He stopped in front of Hawke, looking down at her with his head at a contemplative tilt. “That’s an impressive record, even for the Redcliffe circuit. Who was your Manager?”

“Stephane Stroud, then his brother Lourdes, for the Kressler fight.”

“I know Stephane. He always was a sucker for blood on the mats, crazy Orlesian bastard,” Meeran shook his head. Then, he straightened up, waving a hand to brush aside an unpleasant thought. “Well, I always hate to see good killers wasted in the ring, come on,” he gestured for Hawke to sit at the table with the rest of his crew. Aveline and Carver hovered at her shoulders, while Redd slunk around to lay atop her feet, eyeing the rest of the table with distrust.

When Meeran was seated between his goons again, he gestured for the elf to shuffle and deal the cards. It was a dead man's tricks set, well worn and - to Hawke’s trained eyes - well worn by cheater’s marks of every type. She smiled when she looked at the hand she had been dealt. Not only were there marks, but counter-marks and dummy marks as well. A good dead man's tricks game was won only when someone cheated better than anyone else.

“Worthy tells me you’ve had eight consecutive wins,” Meeran said, discarding two from his hand, taking three from the deck. Thus began the first round of cheats. Most of them easy - palming cards, taking an extra, counting the opponents. It was a friendly game of cheats among killers and thieves, and in Hawke’s opinion the best kind of icebreaker. At least the best kind of way to see if who you were working with was sharp enough to catch the unique cheats on the cards, sly enough to make marks of their own, and gracious enough to lose when it was time to lose. Hawke had learned the lesson a long time back that you never out-cheated a potential boss. Not if you wanted all your bones in the right place the next morning.

“Eight for the Strouds, plus five unregistered fights to get into the circuit,” said Hawke. She ran her thumbnail along the edge of a card, feeling the little cheat marks out, then slightly altering one of them to look like another.

Cards passed over the table. Hands were revealed, cheats countered, the cards reshuffled. One of the goons marked points on a corner of the table with a faded old dry-erase marker. Meeran asked, “You thinking of getting back in the ring here? Kirkwall runs hard; they _expect_ at least a death a night.”

Hawke chewed her lip as she considered that question. “It wouldn’t be my first choice,” she admitted.

Meeran nodded. The cards flipped; Hawke took the points, and was given the deck to shuffle. Meeran said, “I hate to see a good killer wasted in the ring.”

It was the way he said it, the way he leaned in a little as he did. Equal parts inviting and unnerving to see if she was the type who had genuine bloodlust, or survivor’s guilt.

_What does he do when it’s both,_ she wondered, dealing out the hand. She kept her face calm as she replied, “I just like to get paid, Meeran.”

Meeran’s grin glinted like a knife in the warehouse’s dim light. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said. Hands were shown once more; the imaginary pot went to Worthy.

The cards made another rotation; as the Worthy shuffled the woman attempted to light a cigarette with a lighter clearly on its last few drops of fluid.

“May I?” Hawke offered, and as the woman moved to hand over her cigarette, Hawke gestured, and the tip lit. The woman blinked, but took a drag giving Hawke an appreciative look.

Meeran snickered. “Gotta flair for the dramatic, huh?”

Hawke grinned at him. “Couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that.” Behind her, she could practically hear Carver rolling his eyes. Discomfort and disapproval were coming off Aveline in waves. “Besides,” Hawke went on, “I have things I’ll need to get into the city that I can’t afford to leave behind.”

“Magey stuff,” said the Elf. Hawke nodded.

“We’ll take care of that,” said Meeran, discarding three from his hand. He gestured to the Elf. “Thomwise can get your stuff into the city, he’ll drop what you need off at Gamlen’s tonight. I’m going to have some work for you to take care of before then. Elegant? Elucidate our new partners, please.”

The woman smiled, leaning back in her seat. “We’ve had a bad string of information from what used to be a reliable source,” she began, blowing smoke rings as she regarded Hawke. “A businessman by the name of Friedrich. He’s been good in the past, but the last few months every lead he’s given us ended with our people dead. Which, I suppose is the reason you have a job now, so there’s that.” She smiled, a mean little glint in her eyes. “I wouldn’t put too much effort into being overly _thankful_ , however.”

“Thought never crossed my mind,” said Hawke. “Where’s he holed up?”

“Down by the docks. He’s been trying to get out of the city, but with all you refugees taking up space, his escape routes have become someone scarce. He runs around with about six goons, so you might want to be careful.”

Hawke sat up a little in mock offense. “Messere Elegant, I am the very _definition_ of careful.” Behind her Carver snorted. Elegant let out a soft little laugh.

“Glad to hear it. Take care of Friedrich and we’ll have you all squirreled away by this evening.” Elegant then turned over her hand, frowned, and tossed the cards to the table. “I’ve lost enough for one afternoon.”

“Suppose it’s time to get back to business,” said Meeran, dropping his cards as well. he looked to Hawke. “You get along and get back; we’ll see to your stuff.”

With that dismissal, Hawke rose from the table, shook hands with Meeran, then turned on her heel, Carver, Aveline, and Redd falling into place behind her.

  


5

  


“ _Five._ ” Aveline gasped as they made their way back up Lean Street and to the Gallows. “You’ve killed _Five people.”_

“Contracted fights, Aveline,” Hawke said, voice low, head down as she barrelled ahead in front of Aveline and Carver. “Each one of them signed a waiver. Besides, you’ve seen me kill plenty of Darkspawn.”

“That’s not even the same thing!” Carver snapped, his hand darting out to shove his fingers between Hawke’s shoulders. She _hated_ when he did that. Hawke spun, advancing on both of them.

“Fine, yes! Five guys died in fights against me, because they kept getting up when they should have stayed down, and if I wanted to leave that place and survive for another day _I had to keep hitting_.” Hawke stepped back, catching her breath, checking her anger and pushing it back down. She held up her hands, then glanced around the street. There was no one lingering close enough to overhear them, but even so, she dropped her voice down a bit lower. “I’m not _proud_  of it and I’m not excusing it, but it _happened_. And now it’s got the three of us a job and passage into Kirkwall, so you’re welcome for that.”

“That man _hired you_ for the purpose of killing people, Hawke. Mercenary work is not a bloodless business!”

“I know that. I also know that it doesn’t have to be a bloody one.”

“Oh yeah, stick with concussions and broken bones like the guys from the other day and we should be fine,” said Carver, his lip curled in a sneer. “What the _fuck_ did you just agree to in there?”

“Safe passage into the city,” Hawke snapped, “and a year’s worth of solid employment-”

“More like indentured servitude,” Aveline growled.

“Okay, good point, a year to work off the debt of getting us into the city, but we’ll get in, and that’s the important part.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Hawke,” said Aveline, shoving her hands into her pockets, her face stormy but determined.

“Just trust me, Aveline. It will be fine.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--  
> Please forgive the current lack of illustrations for this chapter! Initially I was going to wait to post, but three months without an update is a little too long for my tastes. I hope you enjoy this small chapter in the mean time!


	6. Chapter Three - Choices

Chapter 3 – Choices

 

1

 

Friedrich had squirreled himself away in a dingy long-term hotel that occupied a sad little plot just east of the docks. The building half huddled under a crumbling effigy of some old Tevinter God, and as such the plaster facade was on one side bleached from the sun and the surf, and on the other leprous with rust stains and ancient graffiti. There were a few cars in the weed-choked parking lot on the lee side of the Hotel, but the place looked like it had been willfully deserted by anyone planning on staying there. Not that Hawke could blame them; she'd almost take the Gallows over having to linger in a place like this.

Hawke looked up at the building; a windowshade twitched aside as she scanned the place. Someone had seen them coming.

“Be natural,” she said, hanging back a little so Aveline and Carver could hear. “Redd, when we get in there, you sniff around the lobby. Carver, pretend like we're here to get a room.”

Inside the lobby was dull. Not just in the way of interior design, but the light, what little there was, didn't seem to reach all the way in to the place. There were rows of fluorescent lights in the lobby, but all had been shut off, as if they'd closed up shop for the day. The single desk was vacant, and there was no attendant bell to call with, and the office door behind the desk was closed, the window dark. The board of room keys behind the desk was nearly full.

Redd went ahead into the lobby, sniffing around the walls and the few lounge chairs that had been scattered around under the low ceiling. Carver idly thumbed through a rack of attraction pamphlets. Aveline put her hand up to the office window, squinting through the glass.

“I don't see anyone,” she said. “What are you planning on doing?”  

Hawke stepped behind the desk. In one of the corner drawers was a guest register. “I wonder if he’s the kind of dumbass who uses an obvious alias,” she mused, running her finger down one page. “Oh, nope. He’s the kind of dumbass who uses his own name.”

Redd barked. A shot rang out. Hawke jumped; Carver let out a high pitched scream. Aveline’s hand flew to grab for a weapon she wasn’t wearing. Hawke leaped over the desk to peer into the dark lobby. At the double doors leading to the elevators stood a tall man. Balding, hook-nosed, awful beard, and a gun pointed at her dog. He saw Hawke, and adjusted his aim, waving the gun up to center on her face.

“Who the fuck are you! Did you let this fuckin dog in here? Fuckin Fereldan trash?!”

“Hey man,” Hawke held up her hands, putting on a friendly grin. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know there were no pets allowed.”

“Who the fuck let you in here?!”

“The door was open,” she half turned, gesturing to the front. She ignored Aveline’s frantic signaling for her to come back under cover. “Look, Ser, I’m just trying to find a place for the night, you know? I was told this place was okay. Is it not okay?”

It wasn’t easy to turn the charm up to eleven, not after weeks without proper bathing or laundry facilities, not to mention nutritious meals, but she tried anyway, opting for at least ‘friendly and harmless’ if not ‘cute and manipulable.’

The man’s aim wavered slightly, enough so he could look her in the face. “Get that fucking mutt out of here,” he said, stepping forward to sweep his gun at the door. “Go on, go the fuck on,” he snapped. Sensing the urgency of the situation, Redd slunk between Hawke and the man towards the lobby exit.

Hawke kept her hands up as the man watched Redd trot out the door - and then he caught sight of Aveline and Carver. “Who the _fuck_ are-”

Hawke's fist popped against the man’s chin like a spring hitting a pinball. He stumbled back, gun arm raising. Hawke smacked the inside of his wrist. His hand went limp; the gun clattered to the floor. He tried to gain his footing, but Hawke's foot hooked around the back of his knee and he went down, crashing into one of the chairs, and then sliding to the floor with a tired grunt.

Hawke let out a slow breath, and then looked around the lobby. No one had followed him down, it seemed. “Aveline, could you get Redd please?”

“...sure, Hawke,” said Aveline, stepping out from behind the desk. She leaned forward briefly to peer at the downed man, then at Hawke. Then she opened the Lobby doors for Redd, who trotted back in and plopped himself down next to the door. Hawke knelt to pick up the dropped gun, popping it open to check the magazine was full. Minus one bullet - now lodged in the ceiling - but that was good enough. Satisfied, she clicked the safety on and tucked it into her belt.

“You are _not_ taking that,” Carver began.

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Of course I am. Meeran said this guy works with at least six goons. I’m going to need an edge.”

“Uh, Magic? Remember?”

She snorted. “I want this to be as bloodless as possible, and the less these guys know about what I can do, the less of a reason I have to kill them.”

Carver’s breath came up short. Hawke glanced at him, and immediately regretted her choice of words. He’d gone pale, his expression attempting neutral but wavering towards… what, anger? Fear? Disgust?

“I’m sorry, Carver, but that’s something I have to think about.”

“Does that come up often, Sister?” He asked, his voice clipped.

Hawke bit the inside of her cheek, but shrugged her shoulders in response. “Often enough that I have to think about it.”

He took a breath to respond, but the doors to the elevator hall burst open and a man with a thin, haggard face took three steps into the lobby, and then stopped dead in his tracks, looking from the man on the floor to Hawke. Hawke smiled. “Are you Friedrich?”

He blinked. “Who wants to know?”

Hawke slipped the gun into her hand, thumbed off the safety, and aimed the barrel directly between the man’s eyes. “Meeran sent me. I’d like to make this as quick and painless as possible.”

The man - she was relatively sure he was Friedrich, from the panicked look in his eyes - raised his arms high above his head. “Look, if _he_ sent you - what did he tell you? What’s he got on me _this_ time?”

“ _This time?_ ” Hawke blinked, lowering the gun to point at sternum level. “What, do you make a _habit_ of killing his people?”

“People die all the time in our business!” He began to take a step back. Hawke cocked the hammer. He went still.

“ _Explain._ I’d really rather not have to kill someone just to get into this Godforsaken city, so you better have an extremely good reason for me to keep you alive right now.”

Friedrich swallowed hard, but nodded. “Look, Meeran’s Red Iron is a mercenary gig on the surface, but the - heh - lifeblood of their little group is ring fighting. Underground, mostly. That’s where the real big money is, rigging fights. It’s when they get a fighter to-” he began to explain, but Hawke waved a hand.

“I’m familiar with the racket, I’ve seen people pull the same shit back in Ferelden.” She ground her teeth together, thinking fast and hard as Friedrich stared her down. He didn’t look _particularly_ frightened, but at least he wasn’t unwilling to negotiate. Hawke motioned for him to step further into the lobby. “I’m going to need a damn good reason to double-cross Meeran, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she began.

“Sis, you _can’t_ cross Meeran, he knows you’re an Apostate!”

Hawke felt a small bit of her peace of mind falling away into an abyss, never to be reclaimed. All the years they’d been hiding and _now_ Carver decided was the time to screw her secret. “Well, thanks for that, jackass. Now _this_ guy knows it too.”

An utter silence descended on the lobby. Hawke stared down Friedrich, whose face had broken out into the grin of a man who had just seen on the distant horizon the dawning hope that he would live to see another day. Hawke lifted the gun again; his grin faltered, but only slightly.

“I swear by the immaculate piss of the Maker, if I hear the word ‘blackmail’ or anything even _vaguely related_ to it come out of your mouth, I will shoot you where you fucking stand.”

“No, of course not,” said Friedrich, shaking his head. “Look, you aren’t seeing a bigger picture here. We can _help_ each other.”

“You better hope we can.”

“I do. Listen, like I said, Meeran runs with fixed fights. Sometimes I loan his guys out to other rings that _aren’t_ rigged, they lose, and he gets pissy about it and sends in a potential to try and kill me. As you can see, that doesn’t exactly work out for his people. For me? Well,” he fluttered his hands. “I run through bodyguards pretty quick, as you can imagine.”

“I’m not here for your life’s story, Friedrich,” said Hawke. “Bring it home, would you?”

He shrugged amiably “Fine, have it your way. You came at an opportune time. The man on the floor there? He was my pick for a fight happening tonight at the Hornet’s Nest. Lots of money moves through that place, and tonight we’ve secured a _hefty_ win against the Nest’s current Golden Boy. The pot is huge, enough to split comfortably between the necessary parties, and one of our investors in this little game happens to be a fixer. He’ll settle anything Meeran sees as a personal score with a percentage of your take.”

“That sounds far too good to be true,” Hawke mused, though the idea didn’t seem _entirely_ ludicrous. Rigged fights had been an epidemic in Redcliffe. More than once she’d been approached by seedy investors looking to make a quick blowout if she took a fall. Pride had kept her from agreeing, though there had been some cold, hungry nights when she’d regretted standing on that particular pedestal.

And now.. well, what other option was there? Kill this guy, in front of her baby brother, no less, and go off to Meeran to be duped into fighting the ring? _Clever pitch, that bastard. ‘Hate to lose a good killer in the ring,’ indeed._

“You know I’m not going to be easy _or_ cheap to get into the city,” she began.

Friedrich shrugged. “Of course not. You’re an Apostate, and you’ve got people with you. How many?”

“Four, plus the dog.”

“Not a small price. Like I said though, there’s good money in this fight. And you _did_ incapacitate my current partner.”

“Yeah, about that,” Hawke nudged the collapsed man with the toe of her boot. He was still alive, but certainly down for the count. “You do make a good point.”

Friedrich glanced at the door. A van had pulled up to the doors. “You may wish to call off the dog, those are the rest of the interested parties. That is, _if_ you want to do business.” He leaned forward slightly, extending his hand. Hawke looked at him, glanced at Carver and Aveline, and then lowered the gun, holstering it again in her belt. She clapped her hand in Friedrich’s, caught his eye. Then she _held_ his gaze, her hand locked around his like a vice.

It was a cheap tactic, she knew this deep down. But her Father had taught her the basics of all schools of magic - to the best of her ability to learn, anyway - and among the few spells that had stuck had been what Malcolm had called the Wizard’s Gaze. It imposed upon a person’s mind an idea, a force of temporary thought so profound it stuck in the subconscious like the tail end of a waking dream. It wasn’t a complex thought, just something to give an edge to the caster, a little extra push of influence catered to the caster’s personality. For Hawke, it manifested simply as _Don’t Fuck With Me._

It didn’t work on Darkspawn or Dragons, but on a normal human man it worked _wonders_. It wouldn’t force him to change his mind if he’d already decided to betray her, but it would _certainly_ make him think twice before doing it. If nothing else, it might buy her some time. Friedrich’s smarmy grin turned down a few degrees to something passably more respectful, and when she released his hand he straightened up and cleared his throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Hawke,” said Hawke, crossing her arms. The lobby darkened briefly, the door crowded by a party of six led by a whip-thin Elvehn woman whose sharp eyes glowed in the dim room. Aveline, looking tense and uncomfortable, slipped over to Carver’s side as the group filtered in. The Elvehn woman caught sight of Hawke and frowned, glancing over at Friedrich.

“Where’s Strand?”

Friedrich pointed to the floor, where Strand lay still and unconscious. The woman let out an explosive sigh and gestured to two of her people. “Is he dead? No? Get him out of here. Who’s this?” She stepped up to Hawke, shrewdly looking her up and down.

“Athenril, this is Hawke,” said Friedrich, stepping aside so Athenril’s people could haul Strand away. “She’s Strand’s understudy for the part of Unexpected Upset Win.”

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Athenril, pinning Hawke with an unimpressed look.

Friedrich waved a hand. “All the better for us. Come on, who’s going to bet on a scrawny little thing like her?”

“I can still shoot you,” said Hawke, with mock irritation. Friedrich chuckled.

“Well, _I_ wouldn’t bet on you, which works in your favor.”

“Our Fall’s not gonna like this,” said Athenril. “Apparently he and Strand had something worked out.”

“I’ll take on Strand’s debt if I have to,” said Hawke.

“You’ll have to take it up with him,” said Athenril, and she pointed at the door.

The ‘him’ she indicated had completely evaded Hawke’s attention. She couldn’t see his face under the hood he wore, though the soft, telltale edges of tapered ears under the hood said ‘Elf.’ The rest of him was a study in various shades of black: Pants, shirt, hooded sweater with the sleeves cut off under a leather vest that had been studded on the shoulders and back with far more metal spikes than were absolutely necessary. He wore black cestus gloves that wrapped up to his elbows, the knuckles worn enough that the metal braces underneath the wraps gleamed dully in the light by the lobby door. The bare skin on his arms was crossed by tattoos so pale they nearly glowed. Surprisingly, he’d knelt next to Redd to give the Mabari a friendly scratch behind the ears.

“Hey, Fenris,” Athenril called. He stood, giving Redd a final pat before turning towards Athenril. With the hood Hawke still couldn’t get a good look at his face, but what she could see were more tattoos. _Is he Dalish?_ Hawke wondered, forcing herself not to stare. She’d met enough Dalish Elves that she was passably familiar with the tattoos they favored, but the design he wore was nothing like she’d seen before. Under the hood, his eyes reflected light back at the room in a brief laser brightness, and then centered on Hawke. She grinned and gave him a friendly wave. His expression went neutral to annoyed. Athenril continued, “there’s been a change in plans.”

Fenris approached, stalking across the dark lobby to stand at Athenril’s shoulder. His voice came out as a low growl, as if unaccustomed to use, and carried a heavy Northern accent. “You have replaced Strand,” he said.

Hawke nodded. “Not by design, I assure you. I’m up for negotiating if you are.”

He continued to stare her down, that annoyed expression sending a nail-on-chalkboard sensation down Hawke’s spine. She kept her return stare friendly, though the urge to glare back was rising. Eventually he asked, “What are your terms?”

“All I need is enough to cover four entrance visas into the city,” said Hawke. “And probably a little extra for groceries. What about you? What was your percentage of Strand’s take?”

Fenris did not answer. Hawke stared at him expectantly, then glanced over at Athenril and Friedrich, who had leaned together in a discussion of their own. She looked back to Fenris. “Uh, was it something _personal_ or-”

“Follow me,” he said, and then turned abruptly and stalked back out the door to the lobby. Hawke looked at Athenril and Friedrich, though they seemed unconcerned, so she turned to follow Fenris. Aveline snatched her arm as she passed, pulling Hawke back to whisper harshly in her ear.

“Hawke, what do you think you’re doing?”

Hawke gently prized Aveline’s fingers from around her bicep, smiling as she did. “Well, since nobody in the building has any inclination of dying any time soon, I think I’ll renegotiate the terms we set with Meeran.” She patted Aveline’s hand. “Don’t worry.”

“ _Don’t-_ Hawke, you’re about to doublecross a _mercenary._ ”

“I’ll have it cleared with a fixer before the end of the night, so long as Friedrich is true to his word.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“I _can_ hear you,” said Friedrich, looking up from his huddle with Athenril.

“ _Good,_ ” Aveline snapped. Hawke nudged her shoulder.

“Hey, if he isn’t, we’ll just go back to plan A. Which nobody here wants, right? Right, Friedrich?”  
  
“I certainly have no wish to die tonight,” Friedrich sniffed. Athenril snorted derisively.

“Right,” said Hawke. “We continue with plan B. Pardon me please,” she finished, slipping away and out the door, following Fenris to the parking lot.

 

2

 

He’d walked around to the lee side of the building, hovering in the shadow of the crumbling statue. Shoulders hunched, head down, he looked ready to break into a sprint at a second’s notice. Hawke kept her gait easy and relaxed as she approached, fighting down her own urge to run off screaming in the opposite direction. _Why_ couldn’t anything go easily today?

“Okay, so, to bring us back to my earlier question,” she began, but he cut her off, tilting his head so one eye peered at her from under the hood.

“Do you truly think any of this could be considered a wise plan?”

Hawke blinked at him, glanced back at the moldering hotel, and then shrugged. “Not really, no.”

“Then why have you involved yourself?”

“Uh… not that it was on purpose or anything, but I was serious about needing to get into the city. And groceries.” Her stomach growled to punctuate the sentence. “ _Especially_ groceries.”

“And so you will throw in your lot with smugglers and thieves?”

The statement was an unexpected fly ball. She blinked, taking a step back. “You sure do ask a lot of personal questions.” _Especially for someone who has_ also _thrown his lot in with smugglers and thieves._

“I wish to know my opponent.” He countered.

“What, you want to take me out to dinner, share our innermost personal secrets? I just want to get into the city without actually having to kill a guy - or eight - to do it. Is that alright with you?” She paused, and realized he was _actually_ opening his mouth to answer the question. “That was rhetorical. Can we get back to the matter at hand? What was your take supposed to be with Strand?”

Fenris went silent. Hawke waited. “...well?”

“None of it.”

Hawke stared at him, taking her time to give him a really thorough look. “...Forgive me, but spikes aside, you really don’t seem like the ‘in it for thrills’ type.”

“I am not.”

“So… what was Strand offering you to throw the fight?”

“Protection.”

“From…?”

He shifted slightly, obviously uncomfortable and failing to hide it. “Protection, no questions asked.”

Hawke scoffed. “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard all day, and I’ve been having bullshit funneled into my ear since _dawn_. I don’t know Strand from the Maker but nobody’s dumb enough to give a scary looking guy like you protection with ‘no questions asked.’”

“Perhaps not, though I might settle for ‘dumb enough to agree to participate in a rigged underground fight run by a pack of backstabbing thieves,’ if that is what is available.”

“...Okay, you have a pretty good point there.” Hawke crossed her arms, leaning one shoulder against the building. “But desperate is as desperate does. I’m still going to need to know what - or who - I’ll be protecting you from.”

Fenris blinked slowly at her from under his hood; his shadowed face had gone completely blank. “Excuse me?”  
  
“I need to know,” she repeated, slowly drawing out each syllable,” What I will be protecting you from. Two seconds ago you looked about ready to take me up on that offer. Something change?”

“Are you _serious?_ ”

“Are _you_? Let’s say we play this by Gentleman’s rules and that I took on Strand’s debt when I knocked him out. If it’s my debt now, I’m gonna pay it. I literally don’t have anything else I can offer you _except_ what he was already going to give.” She flashed him a humorless grin. “I’m going to enter this fight whether you like it or not, but I’d like to do that on terms that give at least a _slight_ guarantee you won’t kill me and run off with the winner’s prize money.”

“No.”

“See, I _knew_ you weren’t that kind of an asshole, which is good because-”

“No as in ‘no deal.’”

Now it was Hawke’s turn to blink in slow incomprehension. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Fenris uncrossed his arms, stood up straight - which put him at equal height to Hawke. They stared level at each other under the crumbling statue. He said again, “No deal.”

“Oh, so you’re a completely _different_ kind of asshole,” said Hawke. “Why _not_? What have you got to lose?”

“That is inconsequential. You are not sufficient to my needs. Therefore: No deal.”

“Not… _what_?” Hawke straightened up, taken aback. Just how would _he_ know whether she was sufficient? Her wounded pride held on to that thought until she realized, under the growing haze of insulted anger, that to him she _wouldn’t_ seem sufficient protection. She was a desperate, exhausted, starving refugee that would grab onto any opportunity - any at all - to pull out of the sucking mire of poverty that was currently her lot. Even if she’d only been skirting the edges of that particular swamp, she was still stuck, and it was obvious. Fenris began to walk around her, heading back towards the hotel lobby.

“You’re not going to like the alternative,” she said, her voice low enough that the wind nearly snatched the words away. “ _I_ don’t like the alternative.”

He turned slightly, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You have my sympathies, but I cannot afford charity.”

“Neither can I. If I can’t secure this fight, Fenris, I’m going to have to walk in there after you and shoot dead every person in that room I’m not emotionally invested in. I _really_ don’t want this to end in threats, or blood, but I’ll do what I have to.”

Fenris lifted his head, regarding her with a frown. “You are willing to kill to achieve your goals?”

“Not particularly; I’d much rather just fight. In the grand scheme of things, getting the shit kicked out of me for twenty minutes will probably be the _least_ stressful experience I’ve had in the last month. I mean,” she scooted around in front of him, barring his path to the door, “I know I’m not Strand, I don’t have his connections. _However_ I _am_ incredibly good at hiding. If I can’t beat down whatever’s coming after you, at least you’ll have someone around that can help you disappear for a while.” She spread her hands, putting on a salesman’s smile. “I’ll even throw in a share of the groceries, if you want.”

“You do not want to be involved with my trouble,” said Fenris, though he did not try to move past her.

“I’d rather be involved in whatever trouble you’ve got than have to go in there and slaughter a bunch of people in front of my baby brother,” she countered. To her surprise, Fenris looked away. _Oho, did I get him with that one? Funny, he doesn’t seem like the emotional appeals type._

Fenris let out a sigh, crossing his arms again. “Have you fought before?”

 _Emotional appeals type!_ Hawke fought the urge to grin and ruin her chances at victory. “I have, in Ferelden.”

“Anything of merit?”

“How does thirteen consecutive wins sound?”

He lifted an eyebrow. Hawke wrinkled her nose at him. “Get that incredulous look off your face, I’ve been fighting since I was out of pinafores.”

“Did you fight _in_ pinafores?”

“Once, but that-” she stuttered to a halt, taken aback. “Wait, was that supposed to be a joke?”

Fenris’ face was carefully blank. “Of course not. You said thirteen _consecutive_ wins? How many losses?”

“None, so far.”

He considered this, looking at her now with more appraisal than annoyance. Hawke shoved her hands in her pockets, defying his scrutiny.

After a moment, he raised one hand in front of him, palm out and open. He didn’t need to speak; Hawke took the invitation and jabbed. Her knuckles smacked against his palm.  He snatched his arm back, shoulder jerking as he did so. Fenris did not take his eyes off her face as he brought his hand back around and began to massage the palm, grimacing.

“I admit, I did not believe you.”

Hawke grinned at him. “I bet you thought I was some scared little girl with a clever mouth, hm?”

His frown deepened. “I would not have chosen those words exactly. You are stronger than your looks let on.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Hawke held up her hand as he had done. “Your turn.”

The punch he threw sent a shockwave of pain down her arm and right into her chest, knocking on her bones and jangling her nerves. She jerked her arm away, taking a step back as she did, shaking her wrist. “ _Shit_ that stings,” she exclaimed, taking a breath. A numbing tingle settled in her fingers, much more quickly than she would have expected. Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. “You held back.”

“I _am_ armed. Besides which, so did you.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, each of them working the life back into their injured hands.

“...You know,” said Hawke, “I’ve never had a _really_ good sparring partner.”

Fenris’ frown returned for an encore performance. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pardon granted,” Hawke chuckled, ignoring his sour look. “What I mean is, this whole debacle doesn’t need to be a joyless punchfest until it’s time for you to fall down dramatically.” She raised an eyebrow, and was rewarded by the sudden light of realization dawning on his face.

“Are you suggesting an exhibition match?”

Hawke grinned at him, nodding. Fenris slowly shook his head. “That is a _terrible_ idea.”

“That doesn’t exactly sound like ‘no,’” she said, clasping her hands together.

“I... am going back inside,” said Fenris, turning on his heel. Hawke followed close behind.

“That _still_ doesn’t sound like no,” she pressed, hovering at his shoulder, mindful of the spikes. He turned and glared at her.

“You clearly are intent on participating in this fight regardless of how I feel on the matter. I will agree to this, if only because whoever _else_ they throw at you in my stead may not feel the need to let you live long after the match is over.” He hunched his shoulders and looked away, moving so abruptly that Hawke had to hop back to avoid the spikes. “I am not interested in _playing_ with you.”

“You insulted my pride, Ser,” said Hawke, waggling her eyebrows at him. “How about this: Allow me the opportunity to prove I’m ‘sufficient for your needs.’”

“You are not nearly as charming as you seem to think,” he said, stalking towards the building’s entrance. “I agree to the farce, but I will not be goaded into risking it all just because your pride is wounded.”

“Fine, I demand a rematch.” She crossed her arms, attempting to bar the double doors. Fenris slid past her, pushing his way into the lobby.

“We have not yet fought, there is no call for a rematch.” He raised an arm to Athenril, who nodded back. She and Friedrich had formed a little group with Aveline and Carver. The rest of Athenril’s crew and several men that must have been lingering upstairs had scattered around the lobby, idly positioned at guard points.

Hawke jogged ahead of Fenris, then turned to walk backwards so she could look him in the face. “Considering we already know the outcome, I _preemptively_ call for a rematch.”

Fenris stopped. His mouth pulled into a scowl as he said, “You are an incredibly odd person.”

“Sure I am,” said Hawke. “What’s your point?”

He sighed. “Never mind. You have your fight, and you will have your win. Athenril, I agree to her terms. Will Strand be an issue?”

“He’ll likely jump you in the street, rough you up for some cash if he catches you alone,” said Athenril. “Probably not for a few days though.”

“What’s the plan for now?” asked Hawke, sliding over to sling an arm around Carver’s shoulder. He shrugged her off, scowling. Hawke paid him no mind, resting her hand on Redd’s head instead.

“You’ll be coming with me to the Hornet’s Nest,” said Friedrich. “We’ll set you up with our Fixer, and get you prepped for the fight. Athenril will be taking care of your belongings.”

“Carver and I will go with. Afterwards we will meet you at this Hornet’s Nest,” said Aveline. She’d been giving Fenris a hard stare, but that look now transferred to Hawke, seeming to increase intensity about tenfold. Hawke gave her a sheepish little smile, and then cleared her throat.

“What about Meeran? He’s probably already sent someone to get our things.”

Athenril snorted. “Not fucking likely. He’d wait to see whether or not you came back dead first. I’ll have one of my boys grab your stuff. I know your uncle well enough to know where to take it.”

Hawke grimaced. “Does _everyone_ know Gamlen in this city?”

“He’s got a reputation that gets around,” said Friedrich.

“Not so fun when it isn’t you, is it,” muttered Carver. Aveline transferred her hard look over to him; he grimaced and turned away.

“So everything is in accord, then?” Hawke held her hand out to Athenril, who shook it firmly once.

“We’re ready to move when you are.”

“What about you,” Hawke began, turning to where she’d last seen her opponent-to-be. But Fenris was gone. Not _just_ gone, either. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine how he’d slipped out undetected. It was as if he’d suddenly turned completely invisible. “...Um,” she said, glancing around at the rest of the group, receiving similarly confused looks in return.

Friedrich shrugged. “He does that often, apparently. Shall we go?”

 

-

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three: AKA 'you can take your canon and shove it.'


	7. Friends, Actually

 

**1**

 

The alley Friedrich led Hawke down was a great deal dingier, darker, and more cramped than Lean Street had been. Redd stuck close to Hawke’s heels, emitting low growls at every doorway and dark corner as they wound their way through the dockside warehouses that took up the majority of the area. Finally, the street they were on ended at a wall… and a sewer drain cover. Friedrich pulled a crowbar from a niche behind a dumpster and began to lever the lid off the drain.

Hawke watched him struggle for a moment, eyeing the dead end around them. “This is not encouraging,” she said.

Friedrich grunted, managing about half an inch of leverage on the lid. “Looks can be deceiving, girl. It’s the best way into the city that isn’t through the front gate,” he said, straining. Hawke watched him struggle for a moment, then sighed, stepped over, and pressed down on the crowbar. The lid lifted off the drain and away with a heavy groan of old metal. Friedrich blinked at her and stepped away. “Flames, you _are_ stronger than you look.”

Hawke looked at him blandly. “Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” She gestured at the drain. “It’s also true, and a mitigating factor as to why I’m willing to follow you down the murder hole.”

He looked at her, still holding up the sewer lid with apparent ease. It wasn’t _quite_ as easy as she made it look. Just holding it up she could tell it was one of the heavier covers that could go on a drain like this, probably to deter people from doing exactly what they were doing now. Exhausted and hungry as she was, she doubted she’d be able to hold the thing much longer, but she kept her face calm and her hand steady as she waited for him to slip down the drain ladder and into the darkness below. Hawke pushed the lid from the lip of the drain, then opened her arm to Redd. He patiently allowed her to hoist him over a shoulder, and did not move as she descended the ladder.

She didn’t bother trying to climb down. Shoulders squared so Redd wouldn’t fall, she braced her feet and hands on the siderails and slid instead, ignoring the scraping fire of friction against her still-tender palm. Her bones jangled in protest as she hit bottom, but she covered her pain with an energetic grunt, rolling her shoulders so Redd could jump down. Then she scrambled back up the ladder, hauled the lid back into place, and then skidded down again.

“Fun stuff,” she said, squinting about in the gloom. Lonely fluorescents flickered dully further down the sewer, casting measly light on the trash-cluttered walkways. The smell was bad, but not the horrible choking stench of a sewer still in regular use. Friedrich pulled a penlight from his pocket and slapped it against his palm a few times. Hawke didn’t flinch when the bright beam hit her eyes, instead squinting at Friedrich through the glare.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, directing the beam down the tunnel. “This way.”

It was not an unused tunnel, as Hawke had first surmised. After ten minutes of walking the hollow emptiness gave way to a labyrinth of cardboard shanties and tents, half-lit by buzzing and crackling neon signs stolen from the upper city and powered by small portable generators. Water dripped along the wide tunnel walls and onto the tents, sizzling as it dribbled on the hot signage. Soon the crowded tunnel gave way to an open network cavern, filled with yet more hacked-together homes, now strewn among businesses of opportunity. She gestured for Redd to stick close to her heel, minding the hawkers that shouted their wares at them as they passed.

She’d heard of Darktown before: Kirkwall’s underground city was a thing of much celebrated myth, not to mention the subject of a few cheaply produced documentaries. Hawke had seen several, bundled in with the other residents of her old flat in Redcliffe, passing blunts as they watched intrepid urban journalists awkwardly interview the lost and stricken residents of the suburban neighborhoods. She’d never imagined she would ever see the place in person. She especially had never imagined the clanging, clattering, echoing _noise_ of the place, or the heavy mingled smells of sewage, body odor, and cooking food.

Portable food stands were scattered among the tunnels, clattering among tents and shanties or parked in the bigger, open spaces that served as market plazas for the sub-urban boroughs. Hawke felt her stomach twinge in longing as the passed cart after cart of mysterious foods she’d never heard of but smelled appetizing enough that even the lingering stench of sewer didn’t throw her off the urge to buy. However Friedrich barrelled ahead of her, and she had no choice but to follow.

After an hour of walking through Darktown’s low streets, Friedrich turned into a broad tunnel that terminated at an electrical room and a service elevator. He lifted the elevator’s panel away from its mooring, flicked a switch, and then shoved it back into place.

“All right, good point of reference,” he said, pressing his thumb against the call button. “You’ll never be able to get down here from one of these elevators, the buttons on the inside don’t have a selection for this level unless you’ve got a keycard. You can call from a panel here, but without the card you’re pretty much stuck if you’re trying to come down from topside.” He gestured at the spring-iron doors, which looked all but rusted in place. “You mind?”

“You sure do know how to show a girl a good time,” said Hawke, nudging him aside. She just barely felt the brush of his hand as he lifted her pilfered gun from her belt and stowed it away in his own in one smooth motion. _Been wondering when you were going to pull that,_ she thought as she pulled the elevator doors open. She smiled and gestured for him to step inside. “Where does this one take us?”

“Up to Lowtown, West Side,” said Friedrich. He leaned against the back of the elevator, regarding Hawke once more under the electric lights. Hawke kept her hand on top of Redd’s head, absently rubbing behind his ears as she did. The elevator cables groaned as it ascended, but despite the worrying noise, the ride was smooth. Across from her, Friedrich crossed his arms. “We’ll be going to a bar called The Hanged Man.”

“Sounds nice. Who’s this fixer you’re taking me to?” She asked, ignoring Friedrich’s scrutiny.

“A Dwarf by the name of Bartrand,” he said, offering a halfassed smile. “He’s not exactly easy to deal with, but considering the money involved, I’m sure he’ll see reason. As for The Hanged Man, it’s a hole, but the liquor’s cheap, and that’s where Bartrand’s office is set up.” He paused, pulling an annoyed face. “Well, Bartrand’s _brother_ is the one who really runs the business, but Bartrand is the one we need to talk to. His brother, ah… doesn’t much like work with ‘my kind of people.’”

 _That’s a stellar referral,_ Hawke thought, smiling to herself. “Bartrand is legit, though?”

“Legit _enough._ He’s putting a good chunk of change into the fight to turn around on some kind of private venture. Dwarven real estate, or some such nonsense.” He waved a hand dismissively. “As far as fixing your issue with Meeran, that will take some greasing. Did the Red Iron pay you?”

“No, this feels more like hazing a new recruit. He didn’t want to invest, but he was interested enough. And… he does have some crucial information about me.”

Friedrich waggled his fingers, a nervous expression crossing his face. “The… uh, the, you know-”

“Yeah, the magey stuff. Among other things. I’ve got five red skulls on my belt from back in Redcliff, and Meeran knows names.”

Friedrich’s eyes grew wide as he mouthed the number back at her. She gave him a toothy, savage smile, hating that it came so easily. “No magey stuff necessary. Still,” the feral grin vanished as she returned the topic to business, “I shook hands with the man. I feel like he’ll take it personally if I don’t deliver.”

“That’s… huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest a little tighter this time, avoiding her gaze. “That might put a minor dent in your grocery budget,” he said finally.

“I think I can live with that,” said Hawke, suppressing a sigh as her stomach growled in protest.  
  
The elevator ground to a halt. Again Hawke shoved the rusty doors open and they stepped out into a deserted parking garage. Friedrich pointed out along the street. “There. The Hanged Man”

The sign for The Hanged Man… well. It was certainly something. It looked like someone had made a 2/1 scale fiberglass man and hung him by one ankle, mimicking the Wicked Grace card of the same name. The painted effigy was glazed by a fine layer of street grime and bird shit, and whatever features the titular Hanged Man was supposed to have had long ago been eroded away. A cursive neon sign lit the dummy from behind as it swung back and forth under the overcast sky.

The building itself was several storeys of brick and mortar tucked between two newer-looking venues where shop signs crowded for space on the front sidewalks. By contrast the frontway of The Hanged Man sported only a sandwich board with a few lazily chalked on menu items, and a sleeping drunk. There were two doors - one to the bar, and one that led to the apartments in the building above, where the drunk had comfortably curled up to nap off whatever it was they’d had.

“Dog’ll have to stay outside,” said Friedrich as they approached. Hawke pointed Redd to lay under the bar’s front window, and then followed Friedrich in.

The place was a hole, just as Friedrich had said. The primary source of light came from what parts of the window that weren’t obscured by ancient gig posters and many decades worth of accumulated grime. A few lone patrons were scattered around the bar and lounge. It was too late for a lunch rush and too early for evening drinkers to pour in, leaving only dedicated alcoholics at the bar. A tired-looking prostitute played cards at a table with a few grimy construction workers. Near the back a row of battered pinball machines and an out of order Ghost Muncher arcade game sat unplugged against the wall; across from them a dwarf waved his cigar in counterpoint to whatever argument he was growling into the receiver of the bar’s single payphone. The pungent smoke hit a chord for Hawke; it had been weeks since she’d last had a cigarette and the softly jangling _need_ for nicotine that had been insinuating itself into her brain _screeched_ with a sudden, painful wanting.

She cursed silently. At the very least her body could do her a solid and decide whether it was starving or jonesing; one or the other would be fine but _both_ was really, really pushing her patience.

Friedrich led her down a narrow hallway at the back of the lounge and finally the long, winding journey ended at a door decorated with a peephole and the cleanest brass nameplate she’d seen in her life. It read simply, _Tethras._

 _That’s familiar,_ she thought, peering at it as Friedrich knocked politely. _I know that name. Why do I know that name?_

The door opened, attended by a tall and broad man who looked like more muscle than recognizable human anatomy. “You got an appointment?” He growled, his voice rolling into the narrow hall like the boom of a judge’s gavel. He caught Hawke’s eye and tried - _really_ tried, she could tell - to give her the kind of spine-withering look that would make any unwelcome solicitor slink back down the hall and under a table in shame and fear. She had to give him credit, it might have worked on her if she wasn’t so damned desperate. Hawke scratched the tip of her nose, squinting back at him.

“Oh fuck off and move aside, Lendon,” Friedrich snapped, shoving the large man away from the door. Lendon grunted but stepped out of their way. He closed the door behind them and then stood in front of it, crossed his arms, and fell into that particular relaxed stance of all long-term bodyguards that Hawke liked to call ‘sentry mode.’

“All right,” said Friedrich, turning to face Hawke. “Remember what I told you. Bartrand is tough to deal with but he’s reasonable. Just let me do the talking, and we’ll be fine.”

 

**2**

 

Ten minutes later they stumbled out of the brass-plated door and into the opposite wall, propelled by Lendon’s beefy arms. The door slammed shut behind them.

“Well _that_ sure as hell could have gone better,” Hawke muttered, brushing herself off. Friedrich grunted and then kicked the door in petty revenge.

“That arrogant motherfucker doesn’t have the sense of a dead nug,” he snapped, shaking out his foot. “I didn’t think he’d pull his backing _entirely_!”

There had hardly even been time to argue with Bartrand. Before they arrived he had apparently been on the phone with a representative of Ignacio Strand, urging him to pull his support from both Friedrich and the night’s fight. He hadn’t agreed until Friedrich arrived towing a dirty, starving, exhausted Fereldan refugee woman who looked like she’d never even _seen_ a fighting ring much less fought in one. Despite their protests, Bartrand had simply pointed out the door and told them to go bother some other idiot with their useless Dog-lord problems.

Friedrich stalked back towards the lounge, Hawke hot on his heels.

“Well?” She asked, hovering at his shoulder. “What next? Is there anyone else who can back this fight?”

“On this short notice? Not a fucking chance.” He began to pace in front of the pinball machines. Hawke took a seat at the little table next to them. “Listen girl, if Bartrand won’t back me I _can’t_ afford to back you. I have too much riding on this to lose his support. Sorry, but I’m going back to Strand to see if he can pull a substitute.”

“That’s a crying shame,” said Hawke, crossing her arms. “Because if that’s the case, we’re going to have to go right back to _Plan A._ ”

Friedrich froze, his face caught between fear and arrogance. “You haven’t got a _weapon_.”

Hawke blinked slowly at him. “I know, you took it when we were at the elevator.” Friedrich took a step back. She smiled. “Need I remind you, I don’t _need_ a weapon? Remember, I’m still ready to take Meeran’s offer if I have to. Besides,” her smile widened, “If I knew you’d taken the gun from me, would I have let you take it so easily if I didn’t _want_ you to have it?”

Friedrich went _pale_. Instinctively he reached for the gun at his belt but Hawke merely lifted an eyebrow, almost encouraging him to touch it and see if she’d _done_ something to it. She could see in his eyes the residual spark of terror from the Gaze she’d hit him with earlier and the alchemy of it and his own innate fear of magic compounded together and forced his hand away from the weapon. She could see his fingers trembling in the air as he crossed his arms.

“All right, you _bitch_ ,” he snarled. “I’m going to go back and try _again_ with Bartrand. I didn’t get a chance to tell him about your… nasty little tricks.” He turned on his heel and stalked back down the hall.

“I’m not _that_ bad,” Hawke protested lamely at his retreating back.

“No, you’re a clutching, vulgar, opportunistic bloodsucker with no sense of decency and a manipulative streak a mile long.”

The statement hadn’t been directed at her. She _knew_ it hadn’t been directed at her. But the Dwarf at the phone had just _happened_ to turn and catch her eye as he spoke into the receiver, and had been talking quite loud enough for her to hear anyway. And even though she knew, with every logical part of her pretty okay at logic brain, that there was no way this random Dwarf knew her well enough to slam a hammer right down onto the head of the last nail in the coffin of her self worth with such precision accuracy… even knowing that, her expression wilted completely. The Dwarf, realizing she’d overheard and seeing the sudden shift of emotion on her face, stared back at her with a dawning horror that was absolutely and _hilariously_ genuine.

A laugh exploded out of her, completely unbidden. Hawke clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering a fit of giggles, closing her eyes as they came in convulsive waves. And then, she realized with a horrible clarity that she wasn’t laughing, that there were tears already creeping down her cheeks that were not tears of mirth. Hawke dug her fingers into her own skin, the hand clapped around her mouth aching from the pressure, and with effort even she would deem as heroic fought back a choking sob of directionless, smothering grief that had somehow slithered its way up from its dark place in her one moment of unbelievable, mistaken weakness that had nothing to do with the Dwarf’s words.

“Oh shit, Kid,” he said, slamming the phone on its cradle, his conversation apparently forgotten as he approached. “I’m so sorry, that wasn’t meant for you, I promise.”

Hawke swallowed hard and took a breath through her fingers, forcing her mouth to curl up into a savagely unconvincing grin. “N-no, of course not,” she said, stuttering through a shivering something that was neither laughter nor tears. “Sorry, that _was_ actually really funny, I’m just… feeling some sort of a way, right now.” She scrubbed at her face and began to rise from her seat, but his hand rested on her shoulder and the pressure, light as it was, kept her rooted to the spot. He gestured to the bartender.

“Hey Corff, get the lady some water. And let that dog in, would you?”

Hawke blinked as the bartender complied, pouring a glass and handing it to the Dwarf before going to the door. She realized blearily that Redd had been watching, his nose pressed up against the window, paws braced on the frame. Once the door was open he scrambled in and made his way to Hawke like a brown bullet, and before she had a chance to voice a word of protest his paws were on her knees and his big doggy face was pressed hard against her chest. Slightly bewildered by it all, she nonetheless put her arms around her dog and hugged him tight, burying her face in his fur and let the tears come again - if only for a few moments. The Dwarf sat next to her, glass of water at the ready.

Hawke took a moment to catch her breath, then turned her head and smiled at the Dwarf, offering her hand. “I’m sorry about that, and thank you. I’m Hawke.”

“Varric,” he replied with a genuine smile, squeezing her hand in return. “And I think I’m the one who should apologise; I generally don’t use my words to make people cry by _accident._ ” He offered her the water glass. “You look like you could use this.”

Hawke chuckled and took a drink while Redd resettled on the floor, head in her lap. “Thanks. Do you use your words to make people cry on _purpose,_ then?”

He grinned at her. “I do, as a matter of fact. I’m an Author, and that outburst was directed at my Editor.”

“That is… quite an observance to make about a person,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Ah, she’s said the same of herself plenty of times. She’s also my Agent, so you can imagine the heated arguments we have about punctuation.” He paused to re-light his cigar, taking a thoughtful puff as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re Fereldan, right? And fresh off the boat, from the looks of it.”

She nodded. “Almost literally; we docked three days ago.”

Varric sucked in a breath through his teeth sympathetically. “Shit, that’s some bad timing. If you don’t mind my prying, is that why you’re following a scumbag like Friedrich around Lowtown?”

Hawke shrugged her shoulders in submission. “You’ve got me dead to rights. Though I didn’t quite expect to end up… well, here.”

Varric looked slightly alarmed. “Pardon my saying so, but you really _don’t_ want the kind of work that prick would line up for a good looking girl like you...”

She snorted, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, no, not a chance I’d take a John that asshole would throw at me. Or any John, for that matter. I’m here about the fight at the Hornet’s Nest tonight.”

Varric’s brow slowly creased as he processed this. “I hear the Ghost is set to defend his title again. He’s got a 26-streak record, and the guy’s only been here about three months. You’re not planning on making a bet, are you?”

Hawke barked out a laugh. “Holy shit, they call him _The Ghost?_ That is so ridiculous. Did he come up with that himself?”

“What, the current champ? I’m not sure if he did but...” Varric peered at her, obviously not liking the trail their conversation had turned down. “You… aren’t going to make a bet, are you.”

“No, I plan to participate. I met ‘The Ghost-’” she raised her hands in air quotes, unable to keep a laugh from her voice “-a couple hours ago. I’m to be his opponent tonight. Or I _was_ , but Bartrand pulled his support. Friedrich’s gone back to try and talk him over again, but…” she shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea what to do at this point.”

Varric went quiet for a moment, looking at her carefully. She took the opportunity to do the same.

He had sharp brown eyes, a twice-broken nose, and a friendly if slightly crooked smile. A well-kept ponytail rounded out his face, and… amusingly enough… he seemed to have an affinity for shirts that hadn’t even been made with a button any higher than two inches above his navel. He wasn’t the first beardless Dwarf she’d ever seen; shaving was very much in vogue with Dwarves that had been born aboveground. What he lacked in a beard, however, he more than made up for with a carpet of coppery blonde chest hair that looked like a lion had aggressively shed on him from the neck down. She remembered hearing once that surfacer Dwarves didn’t really shave their beards; the hair simply crept down to their chests to stay closer to the ground.

 The devilish thing of it was, though, she could _swear_ she’d seen him somewhere before. At least, for some reason, she felt almost as if she recognized him by chest hair alone.

 She was shaken out of her attempt to remember when he asked, “Can I see your hands?”

 Hawke complied, holding them out to him palms up. He turned them over and then leaned close, running his thumbs over the callouses on her knuckles, pushing her fingers to curl into fists, causing the callouses to show better and cast relief against the thin scars across the backs of her hands. “You use rope wraps?” He looked up at her, eyebrows raised.

“It’s the preferred method in Redcliffe. I’d rather go with cloth, but they like seeing blood on the mats out there.” She smiled thinly. While legal fighting rings had mostly moved towards cloth wraps or padded boxing gloves, she’d been encouraged to wrap her hands with the slim white knotted ropes Stroud’s gym had provided. The knots were meant to lay across the knuckles, adding an extra - sometimes deadly - edge to each punch. “I try to stick to my legs, if I can. Looks flashy and distracting, and there’s no chance a fighter will rope wrap their _feet_.”

“So you’re not just going out there to take some licks for the crowd,” Varric mused. He let go of her hands and leaned back in his chair again, looking her in the face. “Friedrich’s got a bad habit of getting people killed in fights. Unless this one’s a fix, you’re really taking a big risk here. How’d you get involved in this?”

She told him (with the necessary omissions regarding magic and her use thereof), beginning with Gamlen’s arrival in the Gallows. When she finished, he sighed.

“I don’t know which part is more crazy to me. That you’ve managed to touch base with _four_ major organizations in this city in under one day - all of them varying levels of incredibly dangerous, by the way… or that you’re _Gamlen Amell’s niece.”_

“That last part is the bit that trips up the most people, apparently,” she agreed. “Honestly I’m starting to think people in this town don’t very much like dear ol’ Uncle Gams. Can’t say I blame them, considering.”

“Yeah, I could tell you a few stories, that’s for sure.” Varric shook his head. “This one definitely takes the cake, though. Those Visas aren’t cheap if you’re bribing your way in; you’d have to take in a _heavy_ win, even if there’s betting odds against you.”

“And I’d need someone to actually put down the up front,” Hawke added. “I’ve got a few silver left but nothing close to what I’d need to enter as an independent, much less take on the Hive’s Headliner.” She frowned. “If Friedrich gets me in, I wager I could use Gamlen’s negative reputation to garner some heavier betting against me…”

“Clever, but Friedrich’s not going to be getting you in,” said Varric, pointing at the entry to the back hall, where Bartrand had just emerged, followed closely by Friedrich and Lendon.

“-Serious about this, Bartrand, you said yourself you _need_ the capital from this fight,” Friedrich pleaded, but Bartrand shook his head.

“Not on your life, Pal. I don’t deal with unknowns and I sure as hell don’t run no damn _charity_ for random dirty refugees!”

They continued to argue. Hawke sighed and laid her hand on top of Redd’s head, earning a soft woof of encouragement. “Well, I guess that’s all she wrote,” she said.

“What if I backed you?” Asked Varric, leaning one elbow on the table. Hawke let out a soft laugh.

“Hah, no. Come on, Varric; you’re really very nice but I wouldn’t ask that of you. Score me a burger and some smokes and I’ll forever sing praises to your name, but you don’t want to get involved with _this_ crap. _I_ didn’t want to get involved, even.” She gave him a smile, truly, genuinely appreciative of the gesture. But who was Varric in the grand scheme of things anyway? How would an author have that kind of money? Still, it was kind, and _he_ was kind, which was at the very least a wonderful relief from all the rest of the shit the day had been slinging at her. “Thanks, though.”

Varric smiled back. “You’re right about one thing, I _don’t_ like getting involved with this kind of crap.” He turned in his seat and waved ad Bartrand. “Hey, Bartrand! Come here a second, I want you to meet someone.”

Hawke went still, looking from Varric to Bartrand and back again. “You… _know_ one another or…?”

“Imagine that, a Human who doesn’t think all Dwarves know each other,” Varric chuckled. Hawke scrunched up her nose and began to protest, but he cut her off. “I’m teasing you. Bartrand is actually my brother.”

Before Hawke could respond, Bartrand approached, followed at a tentative distance by Friedrich. “What is this, Varric? And you,” he turned to Hawke, “didn’t I already tell you to get lost?”

“Come on, Bartrand, that’s no way to treat a business partner,” Varric cut in smoothly, blowing a smoke ring in Bartrand’s direction, grinning beatifically as he did. “This is Hawke. I’m going to be backing her in the headline fight at the Hornet’s Nest tonight.”

 

**3**

 

The first thing Hawke learned about Varric - after getting a succinct example of just how devastatingly good he was at both pushing his brother’s buttons and yet somehow guiding Bartrand to make an intelligent business decision - was that the guy loved nice cars… and that he was a _huge_ nerd.

The car she was in now, for example. It was a classic black Relchrys Imperial Crown sedan, the exact car from a comic book she remembered reading when she was a kid. He’d actually made a point to mention that fact when he’d ushered her into the passenger’s seat. Which he assured her didn’t _actually_ eject, but the button on the dashboard looked convincing enough she didn’t want to push it. That aside, the interior was lush, all leather and polished wood trim and an enviable soundsystem updated from the car’s original setup. Varric called the car _Black Beauty._

“I feel... _Incredibly_ self conscious right now,” said Hawke, trying not to get too much of herself all over the pristine seat. Varric scoffed, and jerked his thumb towards the back, where Redd was having the time of his life hanging his head out a window. The wind flapped the dog’s massive jowls, giving his side of the car a good coating of joyful slobber.

“Listen Hawke, if I’m not worried about what Hooch back there is doing, I’m not worried about you getting a little road grime on the leather.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and smiled. “You’re in good company, kid. This car’s seen worse than dirty laundry.”

She didn’t push the issue. Besides, she was still reeling somewhat from the events of the last half hour. The negotiation of her one-time contract for the fight had been written on simple and clear terms by Varric himself. Money had changed hands, and a few documents read and signed. Friedrich had been sent to get his things in order, Bartrand had stalked off in a fit of irritation, and Varric had offered to give Hawke a lift to the Hornet’s Nest.

In three hours, she’d be in the ring. It didn’t even seem real.

The drive was short; Varric pulled into the parking garage alongside a long, squat concrete building that on one lengthly wall had been painted with a massive angry looking swarm of hornets erupting from a nest that bore the building’s legend. A crowd had already collected in front of the main doors. Exiting the car, Hawke started towards the entrance.

“Oh no, we won’t be going in through the front,” he said, taking her arm. He instead gestured to a service elevator.

“Great, I hadn’t seen enough of these today,” said Hawke, but before she could take the elevator doors in hand, Varric pressed the call button and they slid open easily.

“These are a little bit more well-used than the ones that’ll get you to Darktown,” he said, pushing the button for the bottom level. As the elevator descended, Hawke looked to Varric.

“You’re really sure-” she began, but he looked up at her with a grin that was half exasperated, stopping her in her tracks.

“I told you Hawke, I’m sure about this. I’ve got a good feeling about you, Kid. And no, it’s not just because I feel bad about making you cry.”

Hawke sheepishly ducked her head. “All right, Varric. Thank you.”

He laughed. “Don’t thank me yet, Kid. I have every confidence that you’ll see this fight to the end, but don’t think that Ghost character will make it easy for you.” The doors opened; Varric led her down a short corridor that turned into a hall leading to the Nest’s locker rooms and training area. “I hear he’s a pretty mean son of a bitch. Twelve deaths, three _in_ the ring.”

That _did_ give Hawke a moment of pause. Fenris had seemed up front about his intentions, but that didn’t mean something still couldn’t go horribly wrong. A stray hit, she knew well, could end a life as easily as a bullet to the head.

He stopped at the locker room, motioning for her to follow. He pointed to a back closet. “There’s fresh duds in there, shower stuff, towels, whatever you’ll need if you want to take some time to clean up before the fight. The training room is through that door, and that door opposite leads up to the manager offices. I’ll leave you for now; I think that idea you had about folks making bets based on your uncle’s rep is a good one, so I’m gonna make a few calls to get that ball rolling. But first, I’ve got some quick business to attend to.”

“Business?” Hawke asked, already rummaging through the spare gear while Redd sniffed around the lockers.

“You said something earlier about singing praises to my name if I scored you a burger,” said Varric, a wide grin on his face. “Can’t blame a man for wanting to collect on that quick, can you?”

Hawke, having forgotten her stomach in all the excitement, nearly sagged to her knees at the thought of hot food. “Varric, I will name my firstborn son after you. I will write crude sonnets of your kindness and generosity. I will-”

“-Make sure not to get gut-punched by the Ghost and put all my charity to waste,” finished Varric.

“Okay, yeah, that’s a pretty reasonable addition,” she agreed, snorting out a little laugh. Varric laughed with her, and gave Redd a scratch before heading towards the door.

“See you soon, Hawke.”

“See you, Varric. And… thank you, again. For all of this.”

He paused at the door, looking at her over his shoulder and this time Hawke couldn’t read the expression, but whatever thought had passed through his mind he must have felt was better unsaid. Then he smiled, waved his hand in farewell, and left.

“Well, my dude,” said Hawke, looking over to Redd, who had found a comfortable spot next to a bench to lay down, “I am going to go take a very badly needed shower. You mind keeping watch?”

Redd’s tongue lolled out in a doggy grin, which she took to mean ‘sure, no problem.’ Hawke went to one knee and kissed the top of the Mabari’s head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, buddy,” she said, and then retreated to the shower.

They were simple spout showers with low cubicles for privacy; nothing fancy but certainly serviceable. Hawke stripped and scrubbed down happily, getting out every bit of dirt, grime, and sea salt that had clung to her skin over the last few weeks. She didn’t want to think about how badly she must have smelled; catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror had been demoralizing enough.

Thoroughly cleaned, Hawke changed into the spare gear that she’d taken. Glancing at herself in the mirror again she frowned. The borrowed clothes were two sizes smaller than she’d have used if she’d been in condition for a fight. She looked to her own eyes as if she’d been shrunk in a cold wash, badly wrung, and then hung to dry in the shade. Underfed, untrained, overstressed… if the fight had been for real, she doubted she’d make it through the first round. But after something to eat and maybe a quick nap at the very least she’d be up to dancing around the ring with ‘The Ghost.’

Stepping out of the showers she stopped short. Speak of the demon and lo did he appear: Fenris was once again knelt next to Redd, who was on his back, paws in the air, and enjoying belly rubs. Fenris apparently did not see her, or he was quite competently pretending that she didn’t exist. She took the opportunity to watch, examining her opponent.

He’d ditched the hood and vest somewhere and had changed into fight gear. She could see now he had long bone-white hair pulled into a queue that fell like a straight, pale waterfall down his back, but dark eyebrows. Someone’s career must have been _made_ with a dye job that thorough. She almost asked how he managed to maintain such a color, but her eyes went to the pale marks on his skin. This close, and without any other distractions, she could see what she took for Dalish tattoos were in fact scars, cut deeply enough to hold their shape but not enough to heal invisibly. Whatever happened to cause _that_ she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Scarification wasn’t a thing with Elves - not that she knew of, anyway - and those scars were too intricate and deliberate to have been an accident. An uneasy feeling crawled up the back of her spine the longer she looked at them, so she shifted her focus elsewhere.

His features were lean and hard, compact in the way of a well-conditioned fighter. She’d seen and fought plenty of men with similar builds; he’d be fast as well as a hard-hitter. Even without taking his physique into consideration he wasn’t unattractive, with high sharp cheekbones and a severe profile offset by green eyes that were almost _too_ pretty for a face like his. Thinking about it, she realized he would have been pretty all over if he didn’t look so run ragged with stress and exhaustion.

 _So I suppose we’re even more alike than I thought,_ she mused, watching him spoil Redd with apparently as much enjoyment as the dog was getting. Fenris wasn’t smiling; Hawke would put down actual, grown-up money on him not knowing that smiling had come as a built-in function of his facial features, but he looked content enough to sit and pamper a near-stranger’s dog until distracted.

Any number of greetings flitted through her front brain to break the silence, but what came out was “Your face looks like a battle-axe.”

“If it offends you, perhaps stop staring,” he replied, distracted enough by Redd’s begging to put any severity behind his words. Hawke snorted at him, and then looked to her dog, who was looking at her with an expression that was too blissful to be in any way sorry for shirking his guard duties.

“I’m less offended by your face than your determined approach to seducing my dog away from me,” she said, passing them in favor of the door to the training room. “Do they have anything good in here?”

“It is serviceable,” said Fenris, giving Redd one more thorough rub under the chin before standing to follow. “Though not well maintained.”

He didn’t overstate matters. The equipment in the small, windowless gym was at least ten years further out of date than anything she’d used in Redcliffe, which was… really saying something, unfortunately. Everything from the treadmills to the punching bags to some of the mirrors on the wall had been patched in one place or another by duct tape, though the makeshift repairs didn’t seem to be to any vital parts of the equipment. In all it looked like a run-down gym in regular use by people who simply didn’t care to be careful with their materials.

Hawke went to one of the light punching bags, twisting it around to check its sturdiness before she began tapping it rhythmically with her fists. It was still far too early to put in a real pre-fight workout, but there was no reason not to give the place a little test run. She glanced at Fenris as she worked over the bag.

"So how do you want to make this look legit? I'm pretty good at playing the Heel, so I'm thinking maybe I'll sling around some shit talk, get everyone all riled up, then-"

"I already told you I am not here to play," Fenris interrupted. He glared when Hawke flashed him a sardonic grin.

" _Please_ , I don't buy the "Not here to make friends" act for a second, not when you keep pulling that sweetheart shit with Redd.” She gave the bag two light kicks for emphasis. “Besides, all things considered, you're already my third best friend."

Fenris frowned at her, crossing his arms. "Third best?"

"Yup."

A silence settled between them. Hawke continued to pummel the punching bag, though she kept watch on him out of the corner of her eye. Not that it did any good; the guy was implacable, at least for now. there were little tells on his thought process here and there, but nothing she could translate. Finally, Fenris asked, "As outranked by whom?"

 _Get a load of this weirdo._ Hawke thought, smiling a little to herself. _Curious, nosy, obviously a dog person. Not to mention he has some kind of Thing he’s either wronged or running from… he’s like a bizarro world Man of Mystery. I guess as opponents go, I could do a lot worse._

"Number two is Varric. You know Varric, right?" said Hawke. Fenris nodded. "He’s awesome. Number one is Aveline. You haven't met her, but she's _amazing_. Six feet tall, ginger, built like a brick shithouse, and sweet as pie under a stern big-sisterly exterior. I'd ask her to marry me if she wasn't a very recent widow."

"Big-sisterly women are your type?" He asked blandly.

"Not just that, she could totally take me in a fight," Hawke grinned. "I like people who are stronger than me. Narrows down my options significantly."

"That doesn't sound a little cocksure to you?"

Hawke stopped hitting the bag, pushing it to a halt as it swung. She turned an annoyed look on him, though it lacked any real fire. "There you go again underestimating me. That's getting to be a pretty bad habit, you know."

His eyes narrowed, the expression on his face going from bland to annoyed to almost _smug_ in the space of a second. "It is a legitimate concern. You _are_ being reckless."

This time, the irritation flared up for real. Hawke punched the bag again in her annoyance, sending it into a hard pendulum swing. "Yeah, you've _mentioned_ ," she snapped, advancing on him. "I'm hearing a lot of 'you shouldn't do this, you're being reckless, this is _stupid_.' And yeah, it IS stupid, I agree! But I'm not hearing any alternatives, so you can either give me a good suggestion for how to proceed or else _you_ can proceed to _fuck right off_."

Fenris held his ground, staring at her with that same level, bordering on annoyed expression. However, close as she was now she could see the tension in his jaw. He was grinding his teeth, holding back an outburst of his own. “You are treating this like a game,” he said, his voice a level of manufactured cool that was rather impressive. “There is a very real possibility that you interfering with this fight could cost your life, if Strand decides to retaliate.”

“You implied as much about throwing in my lot with you as well,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “You can’t scare me off, Fenris. I plan on getting my family to safety by any means necessary, but for fuck’s sake this doesn’t need to be so damned _dramatic._ ” She paused, then wheeled one hand in the air. “Well I mean, not _that_ kind of dramatic.”

Fenris sighed, shaking his head at her. “I was a fool to attempt this again,” he growled.

“Yeah, I told you underestimating me twice was stupid,” she said. He gave her another sour look, but held up his hands.

“Fine, do your grandstanding if it makes you feel better.”

“It _will,_ thank you very much,” she grumbled back. She nearly went on to voice a rather nasty insult when a familiar voice interrupted:

“Hey now, don’t you two know it’s bad luck to see each other before the fight?”

As one they turned towards the door, where Varric stood with a grin on his face and a paper sack in his hand. There were tell-tale grease stains at the bottom of the bag, and even from where she stood Hawke could smell the heady aroma of a hamburger and fries. Hawke did her level best to not stare at it with the intensity of a starving vulture. Varric took pity on her and handed the sack over, his grin widening as she squealed in delight and dove in for the fries, still steaming hot from the frier.

“Okay forget what I said earlier,” she said around a mouthful, “someone just got shot up to the number one spot. Want one?” She thrust the bag at Fenris, who stared at the bag for a second before taking a single fry. Hawke scowled at him and shook the bag. He sighed and took a few more fries, eating them slowly as if he wasn’t quite sure of what they were supposed to be, but not necessarily as though he wanted to stop any time soon. Hawke rolled her eyes dramatically at him before turning her attention back to Varric.

“So what’s the scoop, Varric? Did my idea work?”

“Too early to tell quite yet, but I had a few calls put out. Your Uncle’s rather enthusiastically taken up the cause, though I think that has something to do with the look your mother was giving him.”

Hawke nearly choked on a fry. “Oh, _flames_ , did he bring her along?”

Varric nodded. “And your brother. I’ll put them up in the box seats, but if I’m any judge you’re going to get one _unholy_ tongue-lashing when this is all over.” He glanced from Hawke to Fenris, trying but not really succeeding to mask the concern on his face. “And... what exactly are _you_ doing here, Serrah?”

Hawke downed another mouthful of fries and flapped her hand at him, dispelling his concern."It's fine, Varric. We're pretty much best friends at this point."

Fenris snorted. "I thought I was _third_ best."

"Hence 'pretty much.' Anyway, don't worry. We’ve got this thing on lock. I'll play the Heel to work up the crowd, and I’m thinking to bring it down to business in, what, third round?" She looked to Fenris, who shrugged.

“That seems reasonable.”

Varric crossed his arms, putting his head to one side. "You're _sure_ about this?"

"Definitely. I'm a champ at acting like an ass because," she grinned, nudging Fenris with an elbow and earning an annoyed grunt in return, "What am I, Fenris? That thing you said earlier."

"A fantastically odd person."

"An incr- wait, you said incredible earlier. What's with this ‘fantastic’ business?"

Fenris didn't quite look at her, but he did quirk an eyebrow. "To call you 'incredible' would imply you have credibility in the first place. Since you've gone out of your way to sail right out of Port Sensible on the _S.S. Quirky_ and over the madness horizon… I’d say _Fantastically_ Odd is a more apt description."

 _"Wow_ ," said Hawke.

"I simply call what I see," he said, still not looking at her. “Usually one only finds people as strange as yourself in _mythology._ ”

“You could’ve just said I’m weird and left it at that,” she muttered, taking the fast food bag just slightly out of his reach. He retaliated by snatching another handful of fries before she could take it away completely. They stared at each other in a stalemate of directionless aggression until Redd sat up and delicately took the fries Fenris had snatched out of his hand with one quick motion. Fenris wrinkled his nose at the theft, but didn’t stop Redd from licking the salt from his fingers as well, gracious in defeat.

“See?” Said Hawke, grinning at Varric. She fished the burger out of the bag and unwrapped it, handing the bag - and the remainder of the fries - over to Fenris. She took an enthusiastic mouthful, gesturing at Redd as she did so. “Redd approves. He was bribed, but then again that seems to be the theme of the day.”

Varric chuckled in reply, shaking his head. “If you say so, Hawke.”

 

[4](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViUI9gAkQ3o)

 

The ring was a furnace.

There were two squat layers of bleacher seats in the Hornet’s Nest. Tonight they’d been filled far beyond legal capacity with thousands of people crushed together in a haze of sweat and cheap alcohol, all screaming for blood even before the first fight had been announced. Now nearly all of them crowded the ring, their faces pressed up against the black chain links that made up the ring’s octagon walls. Broken bottles crashed against the ring’s support beams, sending glittering clouds of shrapnel and liquor spraying onto the mat. Spectators shrieked and hollered, pummelling each other and the bleachers as they crowded the ring while a giant box timer ticked down the last few second of the break between rounds. They were chanting. She couldn’t quite make out the words. Whatever it was, the screaming press of them had turned the already hot ring into an inferno.

Her plan to hedge bets against her had worked; when the final call had been made people had stampeded the cage to put last-minute bets on The Ghost, all of them assured by Gamlen Amell that his niece was a _sure thing_ and the best bet they’d make. In all, only five tallies had been struck under Hawke’s name, while the board under ‘Ghost’ had been filled and then some.

The crowd had jeered and catcalled, rallying behind their Champion. The red skull pins on his belt - _too many_ , she thought - glittered under the spotlights, only emphasizing how outmatched she was, how unworthy an opponent.. They’d screamed for her blood. She responded in kind, taunting Fenris into taking swings that went wide, dodging like time had been slowed for him alone. Flipping and and spinning, dancing in and out of his range. He might not have been there to play, but she was going to enjoy herself and damn what anyone said otherwise. Every hit that landed only spurred her on.

And now round three had come and gone. Hawke’s pulse hammered in her ears. A gash struck along her hairline throbbed in time. A chorus of black sparks fluttered into the center of her field of vision and then vanished. Across from her Fenris knelt, one hand clasping an ice pack to his stomach. He stared back. A glow reflected in his pupils and below teeth - _smiling_ \- stained with blood but cased in a grin that beckoned before being covered once again by the black rubber mouthpiece.

She’d call it a mistake, but she hadn’t mis-timed the kick that should have been the K.O. in round three. _Blind with sweat_ , she planned to lie. _Lost track of time._ A total falsehood. She’d counted the seconds as she dodged his strikes, drawing him in tight. Blow for blow they’d struck and blocked until she broke, weaving back until a dancer’s leap had brought her up and in, and then she descended, twisting her heel down into his stomach a split second _after_ the bell had been struck to end the round.

He knew. He couldn’t have _not_ known. He’d been taunting her the whole round, giving her every opportunity to strike, _nagging_ her with nothing but his infuriatingly calm and ready expression. Even then, even three rounds in and knowing she was holding back on purpose, he _doubted_ her. So she had bided her time and struck too late for him to do anything but get up and fight the next round. She hadn’t held back. And now - _finally_ \- he wanted to play.

Hawke swallowed water, washing the blood from her mouth. Aveline was at her ear, hands hard against her shoulderblades, shouting something encouraging. Behind her Hawke knew Varric was there, down in the nosebleeds instead of the Manager’s box. He’d insisted Leandra, Gamlen, and Carver take the seats instead.

 _Speaking of Mother, she’s going to kill you if you don’t win this fight,_ she admonished herself. _Stop fucking around and end this._

She would. Of course she would. But first, she’d have some _fun._

The Bell. Aveline retreated. Hawke rose and slid into position. Fenris came at her low, hands up, the grin gone from his face but echoing in his eyes. She danced out of his range, throwing light jabs as he turned to keep her in view. He swept in, spinning into a kick that slammed hard against her side, sending her feet skidding across the ring. She hopped back and away, catching her breath, dancing again as he held his ground.

His shoulders rolled right - _no_ \- left, a hook that slammed like a hydraulic press against her guard. She jumped back, arm buckling, caught her footing and then his knee came up swift and sharp - not hard and thank the Maker not _deadly -_ but nonetheless a flash of false light and then _pain_ as her cheekbone and his kneecap met in a brief kiss. The crowd howled as one creature, its voice echoing inside Hawke’s skull. Her heart shuddered in response. The world went bright.

Her foot turned and the ring skidded sideways and then _stopped_. His fingers hooked around the strap of her top and pulled her back up to stand while his other fist slipped far away and then rocketed at terminal velocity right for her. She twitched aside. His wrapped knuckles barely grazed the sweat-slick skin of her face. She slipped under his arm as the rest of his body followed through the punch.

She brought her fist up like a battering ram, aiming for the spot she’d marked before with her heel. His skin was still cold from the ice, she could feel it even through the wraps and the pounding, burning heat of the blood in her knuckles. She felt his breath against her shoulder, a scalding hot gasp in the smothering heat. Her feet skidded on the mat, microcuts from the glass bleeding her, killing her traction. She brought her fist up again, burning against the cold. The impact made her shoulder scream. She felt him lift, feet rising from the ground. Then his weight hit her like a sandbag. Her footing gave but he fell first, gasping. She went to her knees beside him.

The mouthpiece. Little crescent of protective rubber. Gone crooked somehow - when she’d hit him? When he fell? Now blocking his breath as he tried to drag in a lungful. She brought her fist around again, weak, slapping against his face to send the mouthpiece flying. Someone grabbed her arm. Pulling. Lifting, up, on her feet again. Staggering back wide-eyed as the referee slapped the mat next to Fenris’ head for the ten count .

Pushing, pulling,someone raised her arm above her head and the crowd erupted once more. Then she was shoved, pressed back against the ring’s fenced-in walls. Aveline again, hands on her shoulders, sitting her down. Cold. Ice pack against her face, blocking her vision until she skidded sideways into Varric, who put an arm around her, his voice a muffled assurance.

And then, suddenly, in a moment of perfect clarity, it hit her. She remembered where she’d seen him before. From this angle she could see it clearly, the black and white author’s photograph on the inside back cover of her long-lost copy of _Darktown’s Deal._

“Holy shit, Varric,” she laughed, barely audible above the roar of the crowd, “I read your _book_!”

Then the brightness, the ring, the world simply flickered off, leaving Hawke alone in the empty and comforting dark.

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> protip: the number 4 is a link


	8. The Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke recovers from the match with Fenris, and begins her new life in Kirkwall.

 

_He pauses to take a drink of water. After a moment he finds himself staring at the glass, lost in a decade’s worth of memories given a fresh start, rather than a fresh coat of paint.  She clears her throat; he looks up, his expression neutral. She has taken a folded piece of newspaper from the folder marked ‘EVIDENCE --Drg9:30-31.’_

 H _e recognizes the paper. He still writes for that very same publication, occasionally. Back then it was a part-time gig for a small time neighborhood rag; these days it’s a newsrack tabloid that sells empty rumors for free. Nostalgia kicks his gut as he takes another sip of water._

_“I find it interesting how starkly your descriptions of The Champion have differed from how she is portrayed in The Book,” she says. Surprisingly, there is no accusation in her voice. “Yet, your descriptions in the writing do not differ from other accounts I have heard of her disposition. Tell me,” she pushes the paper to his side of the table, lifting her chin in what seems like challenge. “Why is it that I feel you are telling the truth and lying at the same time?”_

_He chuckles as he scans the article he could still remember sitting down to write._

_“If I am, it’s because half-truths are primarily what I have to work with. I didn’t technically write The Book, after all.”_

_She nods. Her expression is solemn, attentive. He can’t believe she’s trusting him. He also can’t believe he’s telling the truth. He looks at the article again, remembering. “But you want to know the truth, so I suppose I’ll start with this; I didn’t write the article directly after the fight. The zine it’s in was printed monthly back in those days, so I had time before my deadline. Besides, there was still work to do before I had time to write anything…”_

**From ‘The Lowtown Low Down’ independant non-profit publication. Limited circulation, Dragon 9:17-Present**

_Bird and the Bees - V. Tethras_

_I’ve been spending a lot of time at the Hanged Man these days. Not just because I live here, but because it’s the last dive I know in the city that still serves Fereldans with regularity and mostly without complaint. A lot of interesting people have tumbled out of that great big bad situation these last few months, some of whom I’m lucky enough to call friends. One in particular I’m sure a few of you have already heard about; she’s already made one hell of a reputation for herself around town. I’m sure she needs no introduction, although… How do you describe someone_ _whose apparent willingness to self-destruct in front of your eyes is both exciting and genuinely frightening?_

_Those of us lucky to be ringside at Hawke’s debut fight at The Hornet’s Nest witnessed something out of a modern fairy tale: a skinny refugee girl from the worst possible circumstances unseating the local colosseum's favored Titan in one spectacular clash. To say none of us saw that shit coming is to mention in passing that water is wet and air in most parts of the city and some lucky spots in Darktown is breathable._

_The Ghost has dominated the ring at Hornet’s Nest for months, with red and white victories across the board. His record speaks pretty loudly while the man himself is mostly silent; especially after the sudden upset loss. As usual, The Ghost was true to his name and vanished after the fight. Hawke flew the coop as well, however she’s all but anonymous in Lowtown. Like I said, the most interesting Fereldans come to The Hanged Man._

_I’m sure you’re more interested in the details of the fight, first of all._

_The place was packed, which isn’t unusual, but that night is truly worth mentioning. News had got out that Local Embarrassment Gamlen Amell’s niece was going to be stepping up against the Nest’s current Champion, a fighter out of Athenril’s crew that most of us know only as ‘Ghost.’ As you can imagine, the betting went on heavily in favor of the champ, despite Gamlen loudly insisting his niece's competency. You guys can’t say he didn’t warn you, is all I’m saying. Anyway, the Nest didn’t stop selling tickets until the Fire Marshall threatened to shut it down, if that gives you any idea of the atmosphere._

_The betting booth closed late; at that point they had to hire some kid with a notebook to tally the cash bets in favor of the Ghost. I can only imagine what the sheet would have looked like if they’d let the bets go on after the house lights went down and a spotlight beamed down on the challenger, representing herself with no title but her name- (Cont. on page 5)_

 

1

 

The lights were too bright in here.

Hawke processed this reality slowly, through a concussion-induced dizzy fog. She tried to close her eyes, but the left one was having a hard time with it so she managed only an annoyed, winking squint at the bulb overhead. She couldn’t approach the light or anything, so she must not have been dead, which was good news.

The steady beat of a heart monitor enforced this reassuring fact: She was not dead. She’d stepped into the ring and survived. Even better, instead of the usual lone crawl back to consciousness usually accomplished from a convenient corner or (if she was lucky) the floor of her own room, someone had been nice enough to put her on a cot inside what looked like a post-fight recovery station. It wasn’t fancy: just the cot, heart monitor, and an IV stand given privacy from the rest of the room by a thin plastic curtain. Way better than what she was used to, though.

Her face hurt. Everything else did too, but the left side of her face was a wall of dull, throbbing ouch that didn’t feel like it was going to fade any time soon. She could breathe fine; no broken nose to speak of, which was nice. Her left eye was swollen, and a thick gauze pad covered the lower lid and upper part of her cheekbone. She remembered the starburst of pain when Fenris’ knee had slammed her right there. Her cheekbone didn’t seem broken though, which was good.

While the pain in her face was hot,  the rest of her body felt mostly cold. Someone had put a light blanket over her, but the chill was more than just skin-deep. Hawke shivered, closing her eyes to feel out whatever else was wrong.

Her hands felt good. Well, not actually _good;_ her knuckles felt swollen and painful, but not broken. She flexed her fingers experimentally. Yes, they definitely hurt all right, but the bones were intact. Her right hand felt a little less mobile; a glance told her that was due to the IV drip connected there. She glanced at the bag; the clear solution was probably saline, which explained the chill. She remembered foggily a conversation with someone in a doctor’s overcoat, blah blah something rehydration, concussion-induced nausea, and then she’d puked on his shoes. The taste of it lingered in her mouth still.

Thus far, still not the worst concussion she’d ever had. She even - yes. After a brief exploration with her tongue, she even had all her teeth. Blackout aside, she’d come out pretty well, all things considered.

Hawke sat up carefully, in case her stomach flipped again, but the nausea seemed to have passed. It was replaced with a brief shame that she’d wasted the meal Varric had given her by being sick, but it was only a passing sorrow. Now she just felt thirsty, and restless, and like she needed to power wash the vomit taste from her back teeth with some sugar water.

She turned to dangle her feet off the side of the cot, and examined the IV. It wasn’t on rollers, but it _was_ height adjustable; the cheap kind where you could pull it apart in pieces to store easily. She twisted off the top third of it, complete with the saline IV bag still dripping away, and leaned it on her shoulder. She flicked off the heart monitor before taking out the electrodes and setting them on the bed. As an afterthought, she pulled the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak.

Thus appointed, she set off to find something to drink.

It looked like she was still in The Hornet’s Nest; the halls all had tacky stripes of dull orange and brown paint on beige colored walls. The universal colors of disreputable gyms everywhere, as far as she’d experienced. Right now the place seemed mostly empty; though she could hear conversations down the hall, the voices were muffled by closed doors. In the opposite direction the hall ended in a waiting area complete with a handful of cafeteria tables, two vending machines, and a t.v. with a cracked screen. Fluorescent lights flooded the place with a somewhat eerie flat glow. A dusty plastic palm plant dominated one corner.

Hawke headed towards the vending machines. She paused in front of the snack machine, examining her reflection in the glass front. Aside from the nasty bruise spreading under the gauze pad on her face, she didn’t look half bad. Hawke gave her reflection a grin before realizing she was still in her fight gear, which meant she had no money for soda.

She glanced around the empty room, stepping backwards to glance down the hall as well. No one was around, and she couldn’t be bothered to go looking for a water fountain. She had a concussion; that was excuse enough to be lazy.

Hawke slapped her hand against the side of the soda machine, sending a small, almost imperceptible pulse of magic into the release as she did. She thought she saw something glimmer out of the corner of her eye, but the clatter of soda cans distracted her back to her task. She grabbed a can, cracked it open, and began to drink it down.

It was that moment that she heard approaching voices. Hawke finished her soda and grabbed a few more, setting them on the nearest table before taking a seat. From the hallway came a familiar cry of shock as Aveline discovered Hawke was not where she ought to be.

“ _Where did she-_ ”

“I’m in here!” She called out, cracking open another soda can. She’d barely begun to drink it when Aveline came tearing into the waiting room, skidding to a halt as she spied Hawke. Carver dashed in on her heels, Varric following at a more sedate pace.

Hawke waved. Aveline scowled.

“What the _flames_ are you doing out of bed?!” Aveline demanded, approaching the table like a charging bull. Hawke offered her an unopened can.  Aveline’s look of disapproval intensified.

“I was thirsty,” said Hawke.

“You have a _concussion!_ You need to be lying down! Maker, if your Mother was here and awake you’d be giving her a heart attack…”

“She’s asleep?” Hawke offered the can instead to Carver, who took it with a solemn nod.

“Uncle Gamlen took her and the dog back to his place, she’s asleep now. She almost _did_  have  a stroke when you went down after the fight, though.” He stared at Hawke while he drank his soda. “You two really went at it.”

Hawke shrugged. Varric took a seat next to her; she slid a can over to him. “Eh, it wasn’t a bad row. I’m not exactly in top condition.”

“You two looked like you jumped out of a Shaw Brothers film,” said Varric, shaking his head. “And you call that ‘not bad.’”

 Hawke shrugged again. “Well, consider the circumstances. Where _is_  the friendly Ghost anyway?”

 "Gone,” said Carver, looking smug. “Probably off licking his wounds.”

Hawke lifted an eyebrow at him. “Praising me now, Brother? Kind of a turnaround from earlier.” She took another swig from her can, emptying it. “Feeling remorse after you ratted me out to Friedrich?”

Carver flinched, hunching his shoulders as his face went from smug to scowling. Aveline’s hard gaze turned from sister to brother, causing Carver to shrink down in his seat a little more.

“I was going to ask about it nicely, but I have a concussion right now so I’m just going to use that as an excuse to be a bitch,” said Hawke. She glanced aside at Varric, who looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to stay and listen or bolt while he still had the chance. “You’re welcome to stay for this conversation, but you’ll be learning some personal things about me that I request be kept in strict confidence.”

Varric considered that a moment, and then settled in his seat. “I doubt anything you could say at this point would surprise me,” he said, reaching for his soda can again. He blinked as his hand closed on empty air. The can was hovering about an inch above his grasp. Hawke had barely moved a finger, but it levitated there just the same. She ignored the little glimmer at the corner of her vision again. Magic plus concussion always had somewhat odd side effects.

Varric looked from Hawke to the can and back again, before nodding once. “Point taken,” he said, smoothly taking it out of the air. Just because they weren’t being observed didn’t mean no one else could listen in. Hawke gave Varric a beaming smile, and then looked again to her brother,  her expression sobering instantly.

“Well, Carver? Why the sudden urge to tell the truth to Friedrich, of all people?”

Carver stared at her, his face settling somewhere between grim and petulant. “You said you’d have to kill to protect your secret. But you hesitated, Friedrich was stalling for time before his backup came.”

Hawke blinked. Aveline and Varric were both staring at Carver with some surprise. “You outed me so I’d have an _excuse_ to murder someone?”

“You hesitated,” Carver said again, crossing his arms. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “All that talk about killing and then you froze at the last minute.”

“Murder should always be the last option,” said Hawke, her voice level. “The situation is bad but we’re not exactly in a war zone, Carver. People _can_ be reasoned with. What, did you _want_ to see me kill someone? Honestly Carvey, what the _fuck._ ”

“I didn’t! And don’t call me that,” he snapped, kicking her shin. She kicked the seat of his chair, making him jump.

“Don’t ever out me like that again, Carver,” said Hawke, cracking open another soda can. “I’m glad that this time it didn’t end in disaster, but seriously. Never again.”

Carver dropped his head, hunching his shoulders again as he mumbled out something that could have been ‘fuck you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ or both. Hawke decided to let it slide. After all, things _had_ worked to their advantage.

She glanced aside to Aveline, who hadn’t moved from her feet-planted-arms-crossed Official Stance of Disapproval since adopting it the second Hawke had started talking. “Come on, Aveline. Nobody got killed, and we probably made a good amount of money.”

“A few hundred thousand,” Varric cut in smoothly.

“Yeah, a cou- _wh-_ ” Hawke choked on soda she’d mistaken for air, coughing fitfully for a moment. When she regained her composure she said in an exaggeratedly polite voice, _“_ I beg your pardon Varric, but would you mind repeating that?”

“Your take is about 140.”

“One hundred and forty Sovereign??”

“One hundred and forty _thousand_ Sovereign.” Varric didn’t bother to hide the glee in his grin. It intensified as Hawke processed, errored, reprocessed, and barely started computing what he said.

“Holy shit,” she clapped a hand over her mouth, staring wide eyed at the rest of the table. “That’s more money than I’ve seen in my life.”

“149,663 Sovereign and some change,” Varric clarified, having pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “That’s after the Nest’s take and my investment. I’ll set you up with an account at my bank tomorrow to handle your payout, and that’ll speed along getting your visas legitimized.” He scratched a couple notes in the margins. “You have more than enough for four visas, and since your mother was born here, you and Junior will be able to apply for citizenship in a year. Your mother’s takes place immediately, so she can go ahead and get an I.D. once she’s up to it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Carver growled. Hawke ignored her brother, leaning in to address Varric.

“Are you seriously telling me we’ll have money left over after this?”

“A pretty decent amount, yeah,” said Varric. He penciled down a few sums, nodding to himself. Then he chuckled. “Enough for groceries, at the very least.”

Hawke laughed, easing back into her seat. “That’s a relief. How long until Aveline can apply for citizenship? Er, if she wants to, that is.”

“As if I intend to leave you to your own devices,” said Aveline. Her voice was severe, but Hawke caught the barest glint of humor in her eyes. And relief, of course. The uncertain future had just gotten a little more stable.

“Sorry Aveline, but it’s five years of service, unless you _really_ impress someone. The Viscount’s had to be stingy these days.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” Aveline sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the Guard is hiring?”

Varric laughed drily. “You’ll have no trouble finding work with them, I promise. They’re always hiring, and they have a serious lack of disciplined training.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Hawke warned. “She’ll take the job and then I’ll have to act like a respectable citizen.”

“I expect you to do so anyway,” Aveline warned back.

“I’m hurt, that’s a hurtful thing to say,” Hawke whined. “Next you’ll be implying _I_ should join the Guard.”

“You’d be a valuable-”

“Not on your _life_ , Aveline” Hawke interrupted, making an ‘x’ with her arms. “I’m not about to take a job that requires a criminal background check.”

Aveline opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again, peering at Hawke unhappily. “Let’s not add to what could be found in such a thing, all right Hawke?”

“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll do my best,” said Hawke, bowing her head.

Aveline nodded in response. “I suppose that’s all I can ask.”

“Back to those Visas, do we know when they’ll be ready?” Hawke asked, turning to Varric.

“By tomorrow afternoon. I called a car to take you all back to your Uncle’s place; I suggest you lay low until I call you. A lot of people lost a lot of money tonight, and not all of them are gracious in defeat, if you know what I mean. I had to release the numbers for the winners. It’s a pretty steep claim for the few who made out.”

“I figured as much. How much longer do I have to stay, you know-” Hawke gestured to the I.V. stand still propped on her shoulder. The saline bag was nearly empty by now, though the chill hadn’t subsided.

“The car’s ready to go when you are,” said Varric. “I’ll go get the nurse so she can unhook you from that thing.”

Before Varric could stand, there came an alarmed shout from the hall. “Where is she?!”

“In here,” the group called out in chorus. A moment later, a haggard-looking Doctor Hawke dimly recognized from her brief expulsory consciousness earlier skidded into the break room. Hawke, never one to miss an opportunity, waved jauntily at him and said, “What’s up, Doc?”

 

2

 

The ride back to Gamlen’s place was relatively short. Hawke could have easily walked the distance, if not for the concussion and the suspicious groups of loiterers lingering outside of the Hornet’s Nest. Varric had wisely sent a car with dark tinted windows. Hawke sank down a little in her seat just the same.

The streets cleared somewhat once they passed the Hanged Man, and by the time the car pulled down the stretch of squat, ramshackle ranch houses, the neighborhood could have been completely deserted. It was just past three AM; the moons hung low in the sky, dully glowing in shades of dark orange, overcast by lingering rain clouds. On the street, the bleak Lowtown bungalows seemed just as foreign as houses on lunar soil.

Dusty yards bore strange trees with unfamiliar fruit, houses leaned on themselves and looked like squat cardboard boxes strewn haphazardly on weed-choked sand gravel. Some of them were daring enough to have laundry hanging on lines. A few had awnings stuck to the side as dusty makeshift carports. Most of the vehicles here were on blocks. The smell of ocean salt, diesel fuel, and wet dust lingered in the air.

Gamlen’s house was the only one on the street with a light on above the door. He stood underneath, arms crossed and shoulders hunched, with Redd sitting just next to him on the thin cement strip that passed for a porch. Gamlen’s house also boasted a carport, in his was an old van sitting on three moldering flat tires and one cracked cement block to keep it from tipping too far sideways. Hawke eyed it appreciatively as she climbed out of the car.

“That thing got a working engine?” She asked, ambling over to it, Redd trotting over to join her. She bent to give him a hug and a good thorough scratching, receiving licks and a faceful of awful dogbreath. She’d never been more relieved to smell something so terrible.

"More or less, but the battery’s dead and it hasn’t had an oil change since Jaws,” Gamlen grunted from his spot on the porch.

Hawke shot him a bemused look. He wrinkled his nose. “Used to drive along the coast, surfed a bit back in my time,” he grumbled. Hawke intensified her stare. He grimaced at her and waved a dismissive hand. “Listen if I don’t want to risk getting eaten by a bloody shark that’s my damn business. How’d you make out, girl?”

“Like fucking bandits,” Carver said, stretching as he climbed out of the car. Aveline exited behind him, thanking the driver before taking Hawke’s bag from the trunk.

Gamlen’s sour face lost its severity. “Have you got it now?” He asked, hardly bothering to hide his eagerness. Hawke couldn’t blame him. He ushered them into the somewhat musty interior of his house. Hawke sniffed the air, catching the faint lingering odor of marijuana under a halfassed attempt to cover the smell with a cheap spindly incense stick. To the left of the door was a bedroom, then the living room after a short cluttered foyer.

“No, Varric’s going to set me up with a bank account to make this as legit as possible,” she said, glancing around the living room. It was musty, but mostly clean, with a tv, record player, two couches and a coffee table with a few stray dishes and old tv guides scattered across the surface. Leandra was sprawled on one couch, a folding tv tray topped with an ashtray and the evidence of the earlier smell just within arm’s reach. Hawke covered her mouth, snorting out a laugh. “Gamlen, did you smoke out Mom?”

“Damn right I did,” he grumbled, going over to the couch. He tucked a blanket around Leandra a little more firmly, as if defying anyone to suggest he wasn’t giving his sister the best possible care. Leandra let out a faint, ladylike snore, but otherwise seemed down for the count. Hawke smiled, shaking her head at them.

Aveline pushed past her, letting out a somewhat disappointed sigh as she set Hawke’s bag with the rest of their luggage next to the second couch. Carver ambled over to sit, looking pointedly at the ashtray. Hawke shot him a conspiratorial wink.

“I suppose it’s better than her being awake and anxious,” said Aveline, leaning on the arm of the couch. “Watching that fight took a lot out of her.”

“I bet,” Hawke murmured, scratching self-consciously at the bandage on her cheek. She wasn’t looking forward to the eventual conversation where she would be asked to explain just where she’d started beating people up for money. She glanced up, feeling the weight of a gaze on her, and caught Aveline’s eye. Apparently Aveline was wondering much the same thing. A cold stone of anxiety dropped into her gut. The thought of telling either of them the circumstances was more than just exhausting; it was terrifying.

 _Guess I’ll have to change their minds,_ she thought tiredly. Doing so would be a chore; she’d have to get Gamlen and Carver out of the way first. She suspected they at least would take ‘you don’t want to know’ for an answer. Aveline and her Mother? Not a chance.

She let out a tired sigh. “Later, Aveline. I don’t want to have to tell the same story twice.”

Aveline nodded, but set her jaw firmly as she did. Her standard ‘we _will_ discuss this later’ expression. Little did she know.

Hawke gazed around the living room. It opened into a den, and further back was the kitchen. Hawke guessed a second bedroom and the bathroom were in the back. “What’s our sleeping arrangement?”

“Carver has this couch, you and I will share the guest bed until your concussion clears. We can adjust after that if necessary.”

“It’s just a conk on the head, Aveline,” Hawke chuckled. “You don’t have to babysit me. Besides, I’m wide awake right now, I’m not going to bed any time soon.”

“I won’t coddle you,” Aveline said, holding up her hands. “I just want to keep nearby in case of the worst when you _do_ sleep.”

“Fair enough,” Hawke shrugged, dismissing Aveline’s worry with a wave. Aveline sighed at her again and turned towards the second bedroom.

“Good night, Hawke. Try not to get into any trouble before I wake up.”

Hawke blew her a kiss, receiving a bemused snort and a rude gesture in return. Then Hawke, Carver, and Gamlen waited in anticipatory silence until they heard the sound of the bedroom door closing. Carver and Gamlen looked to Hawke, who grinned back.

“I’ve got about 20 Sov on me right now,” she said, pulling out her wallet. “Where’s the nearest 24-hour grocery that sells lottery tickets?”

Gamlen blinked. “Uh, Super T Mart, just down the street.”

“Cool, take this,” she handed him a bill, the last remaining since she’d packed away her savings and gone to Lothering. “I need you to get me a pack of djarum blacks, a ten silver scratch-off, and use whatever’s left over for a couple beers. Bring Redd with you, he could use a walk. Use _this_ copper for the scratch-off,” took a coin from her pocket and smeared it with some of the crusty, congealed blood from under her face bandage. Gamlen recoiled.

“Eugh, what’s that nonsense?”

“I’m giving my luck to the coin,” she said, grabbing his hand and putting it firmly in his palm. He wrinkled his nose, but closed his fingers around it anyway.

“That’s... not some kind of blood magic, then,” he said, frowning.

“ _Eh,_ ” she waved her hand in a see-saw motion. “It’s kind of magic and there’s blood involved mostly because I really didn’t want to lick something that’s been in my pocket for the last three weeks.”

“So you’re making him touch your nasty, pus-crusted battle gunk?” Asked Carver, wrinkling his nose. Hawke put her hand over his mouth.

“ _Shoosh_. Anyway Gamlen, this is more like…” she wheeled her hands in the air a bit, weaving the right words together. “My lucky streaks are limited enough I want something of mine with whatever proxy I’m using to ensure the luck takes.”

Gamlen blinked at her, apparently lost but not lost enough to give the coin back. “You sure that’s luck you’re feeling? Not just cocky after old boy let you drop him?”

Carver snorted at that. Hawke squeezed her fingers over his nose as well, then recoiled when he finally gave in and slobbered all over her palm. She scowled at him, wiping her hand on her shorts.  “You’re disgusting. Anyway Gamlen, considering the shit we got through to get here, I’d have to say I’m feeling like the luckiest girl alive. As it is, I’m lucky this very injury didn’t kill me outright.”

“Mhm. What do I do with the scratch-off?” He asked, looking a little more appreciatively at the coin in his hand.

“Scratch it and cash it, of course. Then I want you to buy the most expensive one you can with the winnings, then bring back what you get from the second card. Actually no, take some from the third win and get some snacks too, why the fuck not. We deserve a little celebration, I think.”

Gamlen squinted at her. “Are you fucking around with me, girl?”

Hawke shrugged. “I dunno, that depends on how reliable your dealer is. Does he have decent stuff?”

“Do you always answer questions with more questions?”

“Seems like it runs in the family. Will he talk to me if you give me his number?”

“I suppose he will...” Gamlen sighed, pointing to the den. “His number’s in the book by the phone under ‘Gillespie.’”

“Nice. And the keys to the van?”

The suspicious squint returned to Gamlen’s face. “What do you want those for?”

Hawke gave Gamlen a pointed look. “Calming down Mother is one thing, but I dare you to try smoking recreationally in here with Aveline in the next room. You’ll feel the disapproving stare through the walls, I promise you.”

Gamlen thought about this a second, and then nodded. “Keys are hanging on the kitchen, it’s the ring with the Antivan dancing girl keychain.”

“Then I’ll see to Gillespie and the van,” said Hawke, gently pushing Gamlen towards the door. “You get us hooked up with some snacks and cash. Deal?”

“Mmh,” Gamlen replied, his eyes going again to the blood-smeared coin in his palm as he headed out the door, Redd trotting at his heels.

Carver waited about mere seconds after the door closed before he kicked Hawke’s leg, raising his chin and looking at her with both defiance and expectation. She grinned and knocked the side of her boot against his shin before heading into the den. He followed, hovering over her shoulder as she flipped through the notebook by the phone. She nudged her elbow against his belly. “What?”

“Why do you want to know about Uncle Gamlen’s weed guy?” He asked in an exaggerated whisper, glancing back into the living room as if worried Leandra might overhear in her pot-induced slumber. Hawke chuckled at him.

“Because I want to get high on something better than the crap he gave mom. You can smell that, right? Smells he rolled a bunch of tar and stems into a blunt.” She found the number, making mental note of it before she turned and went into the kitchen, Carver again close on her heels. She grabbed the keys with the Antivan Dancing Girl keychain and handed them over. “I’m going to ask you a huge favor,” she said, looking him in the eyes. He squinted back, suspicious.

Hawke put her hands up in a pleading gesture, clasped under her chin, eyes going as wide and pathetic as she could make them with one still stuck in a semi-permanent squint. “I need you to make sure there aren’t any spiders in that van.”

Carver rolled his eyes so hard that the rest of his body followed until he ended up doing a full 360 turn on his heel. “ _Ellie_.”

“ _Please?_ Come on, look at me. I got beat up by a guy who’s like fighting _ten_ guys!” She gestured to herself, attempting to look pitiful. Admittedly she fit the part pretty well. “And I’m getting you good weed! Probably!”

“You’ve fought _Darkspawn_.” Carver said, turning for the door as Hawke threw her arms around his neck and hung off him like a tacky pendant.

“But the spu-huh-hiiiidersssss Carverrrrrrr. They’re so little and grooooosssss,” Hawke whined, struggling to keep her voice down. Carver hunched his shoulders and bent forward to try and break free, but she held on tighter, feet rising off the ground as he carried her in an idiot’s version of a piggy-back ride. “Carver the _spidersssss_.”

“I’ll get your damn spiders!” He hissed back, flailing behind himself to swat her off. She let go and hopped away, beaming at him like a spotlight. He groaned and rolled his eyes again for emphasis as he exited the kitchen door, stomping along the dusty gravel walkway to the carport.

Hawke listened for the sliding creak of the van’s side door, shaking her head. She’d never been afraid of spiders, not once in her life. She’d seen spiders that small children could have ridden into battle just hanging out in the fields outside Lothering and hardly batted an eye. But while Carver was a distractible young man, when set to a task he did it thoroughly and efficiently. With him tending to the van and Gamlen on his errand, the house was blessedly quiet. And more importantly, vacant of anyone who could serve as a witness.

Hawke went to  the second bedroom. Gillespie could wait a minute, she had a more important task at hand.

The bedroom was big enough to fit a queen bed and a dresser, and nothing more. A cellophane-covered window decorated one wall, nothing else. On the bed Aveline was dead asleep; likely passed out before her head even hit the pillow. Hawke couldn’t blame her. After all, this was Aveline’s first night in a real bed since… likely well before they met.

Hawke lingered in the doorway only a moment before coming to kneel at the bedside, gently placing her hand on Aveline’s forehead. A faint glimmer of magic spilled from her finger to sink into Aveline’s skin. A moment later, she let out a faint sigh and relaxed into a much deeper sleep.

The next part was easier than Hawke wanted to admit. She knew that if her conscience hadn’t been beaten down ages ago it would be screaming at her now, but she’d whittled away all but the most basic morals out of necessity. As such, it only whimpered faintly as the spell took hold of Aveline’s sleeping mind, instead of overwhelming her pragmatism with guilt.

And it _was_ pragmatism. Of course it was. She wouldn’t have pulled a nasty trick like this if there were any other way. But... there was no other way.

Hawke leaned closer, so close that her mouth just barely brushed the shell of Aveline’s ear.

“Aveline,” she whispered, her voice trickling into the space between them, heavy with magic and willpower, “you can not ask me why I learned to fight. How, who, when and where is fine, but you must never ask me _why._ ”

Aveline mumbled something in her sleep and sighed again before she went still, so deeply asleep a hurricane wouldn’t wake her. Hawke kissed the top of her head before standing and stepping away, pulling the magic with her.

She could feel Leandra’s mind from the other side of the house; pot was good for a lot of things, especially keeping someone’s mental space close to the Fade. Hawke barely had to exert herself to latch on to her mother’s dreaming consciousness once she made it to the living room. Kneeling again, she repeated the command. There was no wash of guilt here either, only a faint twinge coming from the scar on her right hand. Maybe it was a psychosomatic reaction. Maybe it was Bethany prodding her from beyond for being an amoral bitch. Either way, the task was done.

With that unfortunate chore out of the way, Hawke stood and went to the phone. Carver returned from his heroic quest just as she finished negotiating price with Gamlen’s dealer, who had not only been at the fight earlier, but had been one of the few fortunate people to actually listen to Gamlen and bet on her. As such, Messere Gillespie was more than happy to swing by with a sack of skunk, and maybe even linger long enough to share a smoke with the victory girl.

“Good stuff?” He asked, going to the sink to wash. His hands were covered in dust and a little grime, and a few loose cobwebs. He must have been thorough. Hawke beamed at him as she hung up the receiver.

“Thank you, Cubby,” she said, pulling out the oldest baby nickname for him she could remember. He wrinkled his nose, flicking water at her.

“You’re welcome, Butthead. There were like maybe only two spiders in there, just so you know how much of a waste of time that was.” He finished washing and wiped his hands on his jeans, looking around the kitchen. “Gamlen back yet?”

“Nah, let’s wait for him outside and let the ladies get their beauty rest,” she said, shooing him out the door ahead of her.

The van was parked so its rear faced the street, giving them a comfortable place to wait. Carver gestured to the open back end, which had been cleaned out of a few abandoned tackle boxes and a sad collection of broken fishing rods. They sat together on the tailgate, settling into the easy silence of siblings who knew full well that any conversational topic would end in an argument.

“You’re really good,” Carver said after a few minutes. “At fighting, I mean. I never knew you were that strong. And you didn’t…” he wiggled his fingers in the air, “like, no funky stuff?”

Hawke chuckled, genuinely amused. “Nope, no funky stuff. I use it to train, sure, but never in the ring.”

“How?”

The question surprised her. Carver had never asked her about magic before, unless it was prelude to an insult or accusation. He’d never exhibited actual curiosity about it that she could recall. Only a kind of resigned resentment, benign enough that he wouldn’t sell her out to a Templar for no reason, but hostile enough that the topic of Magic was just not the thing to be brought up between them.

“...You mean, how do I train with it?” She asked cautiously.

“Yeah. I thought it was all supposed to be like...” He made a gesture that looked kind of like someone casting a fireball. “Explosions and shit all over the place. How do you learn how to fight like _that_?”

 _He actually wants to know? Holy shit. He actually wants to know._ Hawke could scarcely believe it. She could also scarcely believe she was about to tell him. Not because it was a secret, but because…

“Fair warning, it’s a little stupid,” she said, scratching at the bandage over her cheek. “Do you remember that one comic we used to read? The one where the main guy turned into a monkey at the start?”

Carver nodded. “I remember. With the bald guy that always got his ass kicked.”

“To be fair that could be five different guys. Anyway, remember how there was that one bit where they got the science girl’s dad to build them a training room where they could adjust how strong the gravity was?”

Carver thought a moment, and then nodded slowly. “I think so. They were in space, right?”

“One of ‘em had a spaceship that could do it too, yes. But… that’s basically what I do. I increase how much gravity pulls at my body when I work out so I’m forced to work harder.”

Carver stared at her incredulously. She shrugged. “That’s basically it. The rest came from straight up training.”

“I saw you do a midair kickflip and you’re telling me that _wasn’t_ a magic spell.”

“No, Cubby, I can do a midair kickflip because I learned how to do a midair kickflip and practiced until I could do it right.” She snorted out a laugh. “Honestly, if there were spells like that then Circles would be a non-issue.”

Carver shuddered. “I guess you’re right. I just… When you left home you were going to Redcliffe to be a _ballerina._ What happened?”

 _Moment of truth,_ Hawke thought, hoping she wouldn’t have to sneak into her brother’s dreams as well. She waved a hand dismissively. “Eh, you really don’t want to know.”

“Was it bad stuff?” He asked. Hawke glanced at him again, surprised to see real concern on his face. She stalled, knowing there was only so far she could push a lie about the _why_. Carver nudged her as she struggled not to spin out a lie that would lead him back right to the same question. He peered at her. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” she lied. “Ballet was fun, but... it isn’t really _me_.” She shrugged, as if that was a real answer.

Carver snorted. “I could’ve told you that. Let me guess, it was a bunch of dumb girly drama in the chorus and you ended up socking the Impresario in the jaw?”

“I’m impressed you even know that word,” said Hawke, as amused as she was utterly relieved that his own imagination had already supplied an adequate lie. “It wasn’t quite like that, but you’re in the ball park.” Which he was, surprisingly enough. Almost eerily close to the truth.

“That’s what I figured,” he said, shrugging expansively. “I never knew how you could stand sticking with that crap.”

Hawke shrugged as well. “It wasn’t so bad. If nothing else, half the reason I can do that midair kickflip is _because_ I was in ballet.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “I don’t want to wear a leotard just to learn how to do sweet kickflips.”

Hawke had to clap her hands over her mouth to smother the laugh that just about exploded out of her. It took a moment, but once she regained her composure she clapped Carver on the shoulder. “Well kiddo, the good news is that the leotard isn’t requisite.”

It was then that Gamlen and Redd appeared at the end of the street. Redd broke into a run as soon as he saw Hawke, galloping like a goofball until he came to a skidding halt at Hawke’s feet. She knelt and accepted slobbery kisses to her uninjured cheek as Gamlen trotted up, eyes wide and arms laden with a case of beer and a heavy sack full of snack food.

“You weren’t fucking with me,” he gasped, depositing the booze and snacks with Carver, who began to set them away in the van. He pulled out his wallet, flashing a wad of bills. “Two hundred.”

Hawke nimbly plucked the bills away. “Thanks, this will put us square with Gillespie and then some.” She held out her hand. “Now give me the rest, please.”

Gamlen wrinkled his nose at her, pulling another wad of cash from his pocket and handing it over. “Cunning. You looking to turn a profit?”

“Absolutely,” said Hawke, moving aside so Gamlen could sit. “I figure I can hustle until a suitable job presents itself.

“Won’t have a better in than Gillespie,” said Gamlen, rummaging through the bags to pull out some rolling papers. “Not the biggest dealer in the city, but he’s steady enough for a hippie.”

“Good news,” Hawke mused, settling against the back of the driver’s seat. “I seem to be getting a lot of that today.”

Gamlen snorted. “Well, let’s hope that holds out, because-” The sound of a motorcycle engine cut off whatever he would have said next. “Ah, that’s Gillespie.”

“Good news,” said Hawke again, grinning.

 

3

 

All things considered, the hangover was worth it. Hawke, Carver, and Gamlen had spent the early hours of the morning drinking, smoking, and sharing stupid stories. It wasn’t until Aveline yanked open the door at half past way too early in the morning to a cloud of pot smoke and the general funk of too little space and too many people drinking beer that they realized the time had gotten away from them.  Carver and Gamlen had retreated to the house while Hawke received a stern talking-to about responsibility and health and all the things someone with a concussion shouldn’t do, which was everything she’d just spent the last few hours doing. A similar lecture from her mother, however, was easily undone simply by making the little ‘blunt’ gesture at the corner of her mouth as soon as Leandra looked like she was going to start singing backup to Aveline’s already significant lead. Leandra got the hint, but didn’t refrain from giving her daughter Very Pointed Looks. Eventually she settled for nagging Hawke into taking a shower and changing into clean clothes, or at least clothes that didn’t reek of reefer.

Admittedly, she should have done it sooner. Just like she should have gone to bed at a decent hour, but she’d been knocked out enough times to know it would be another day before her body settled down to let her sleep again. But the hot shower was a close enough substitute. She sat under the streaming water until it began to cool past comfort, ignoring Gamlen’s occasional loud protests about his water bill.

There was a meal after the shower. It wasn’t much more than what had been left over from the snacks Gamlen had bought with the scratchoff money. But the five of them sat around the table (at Leandra’s insistence) and observed the chant (also at Leandra’s insistence) and did _not_ give table scraps to the dog (the rule which Leandra immediately broke as soon as she thought no one was looking) and ate in comfortable, if mostly hungover silence.

Comfortable, that is, for everyone but Hawke.

If anything, the meal should have been anything _but_ silent. The kitchen table had always been where Leandra held court, interrogating her children on anything she felt she needed to know about their lives. There should have been questions - pointed, important questions about wheres and hows and most importantly _why_ \- but she’d seen to it that those questions wouldn’t be asked.

And now in the absence of them, she felt their weight like she was being smothered. Partly in anticipation, the breathless worry that something had gone wrong, that some little component of the spell hadn’t caught and her mother would turn and look at her, or Aveline would have a stray thought that needed to be voiced aloud, and the matchstick foundation of her secrets would go up in so much smoke and failed magic. And… she supposed the rest of the weight on her heart must have been something like guilt, or some nostalgic sorrow over not having to deflect her mother’s interrogations.

But the meal had finished companionably. They all cleared the mess together, with minimal grousing, and most importantly... no questions.

 

4

 

The sun was just starting to dip again when the phone rang. Hawke had spent the better part of the afternoon being out of the way while her mother and Aveline saw to unpacking things. Carver had wisely opted to leave the house, using Redd and the need to get to know the neighborhood as an excuse. Gamlen had disappeared into his room soon after eating, and had been snoring in there since.

Eager for something to occupy her time that wasn’t a back-issue of TV Guide, Hawke took a dive for the den, snatching up the phone before Leandra could reach it. “City Morgue,” she greeted in an overly chipper voice, dodging the resulting exasperated swat from Leandra. “You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.”

The laugh on the other line wasn’t yet familiar, but it was starting to be. “Never heard that one before, Slugger. Is your mommy there or do you think you can age up enough for a grown up conversation?”

Hawke snorted a laugh over her own. “I suppose I can make the effort if it’s for you, Varric. How’s my favorite Dwarf?”

“I’ll ask him next time I see him. How’s my favorite Champion?”

“Ditto,” Hawke chuckled. “You said business?”

“Yeah,” Varric sighed, and even over the phone she could tell he was already exhausted by the necessity of having to be a legitimate businessman for more than five minutes. “I just wanted to let you know I’ve got you vetted for an account at a Credit Union I like to use for this kind of thing. If you’re up for the company, I’d like to meet you at the Hanged Man and go over all the official crap so we can get you paid and get your Visas printed.”

“I’m fine with that,” she leaned back to catch her mother as she passed. “What time?”

“Give me about an hour and I’ll be back there, I’m getting things square with the Nest right now,” said Varric. “Just make sure to bring something official-looking with your Uncle’s address on it.”

Hawke snatched a suitable piece of junk mail from the counter next to the phone and shoved it into her pocket. “Sounds good, I’ll head over. Catch you later, Varric.”

“Seeya, Hawke.”

She smiled at the phone as she set it back on its cradle, and then at her mother, pulling her into a hug. “I’m going to go get the last of the business settled with the prize money, and then I’ll bring home dinner.’

“Honey, you should rest instead,” Leandra protested, stepping away and taking her daughter’s hands. Hawke held her breath as Leandra paused for a moment to really look at them, the two of them lapsing into a sudden, deep silence.

“Maker,” Leandra sighed after a moment. “Oh sweetheart, your poor hands are…”

 _Ruined_ was the word Hawke knew Leandra was struggling not to say. She smiled at this knowledge, gently curling her hands into fists that laid softly in her mother’s palms. The callouses and broken rope scars across her knuckles stood out in stark relief against the bruised and swollen skin. Varric had touched them the day before with practiced consideration, but Leandra’s fingers twitched and she pulled away, curling her own hands - soft from years of lotions and no work more strenuous than tending a kitchen garden - into her pockets, as if seeking protection from the weapons they had just held.

 “It’s fine, Mom,” Hawke said, her voice very soft. “They’re just fine for my needs.”

Leandra nodded. Hawke banished the remaining awkwardness away by jauntily tugging at the lapels of her shirt. “Besides, these mitts are about to bring home some _serious_ bacon. I’ll be back in a couple hours with more food than has probably ever been present in this house, and we will feast like an approximation of nobility!”

Leandra chuckled, charmed in spite of herself. “Well, I suppose I can’t argue that. Just be safe dear, I know that Hanged Man is close but Lowtown is a dangerous place for a pretty girl.”

Hawke stared flatly at her mother, deliberately scratching at the squishiest, grossest part of the bandage on her face, which had been replaced twice already. Leandra threw up her hands in defeat, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Maker! Let a Mother feel protective!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Go on, go before I do something silly like tell you to call me once you get there!” Leandra shooed her towards the door, only to grab her arm in a vice grip to stop her from leaving the house without a jacket. Thus appointed, Hawke skipped out, taking off down the street with a wave.

She kept up the jaunty step until it came time to turn the corner. As soon as she did, she slid into the much easier pace usually employed for taking to the streets in a town like Kirkwall; shoulders square, head forward, thumbs hooked in the pockets of her jacket so her hands were free if she needed them for some swift conflict resolution. It was _amazing_ the difference a bit of posturing could make. With the bruises and bandages she simply screamed DO NOT. FUCK WITH ME. without having to. It was kind of relaxing, in a way. A few people moved to the opposite side of the street as she approached, dodging traffic to make sure they didn’t have to dodge _her._

The Hanged Man was no different from the day before, down to the minimal post-lunch pre-dinner crowd and the same Bartender idling away at one corner. Hawke slid into a seat at the Bartender’s spot, which was nicely positioned to see the rest of the room without looking like she was open to conversation. She sat facing the taproom, back to the rest of the bar, idly watching the patrons to while away the time. With luck, nobody would find any reason to strike up a conversation, and she’d have some time to herself until Varric arrived.

This vain hope was dashed in under ten minutes, which was approaching record time, considering her usual track record.

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Fenris taking the next empty seat over.

He looked… good, actually. They’d beaten the shit out of each other, and after a day the bruises had begun to set in, but he looked none the worse for wear. A fading shiner spread from the right side of his nose all the way to the highest point of his cheekbone, yet somehow only  served to make him look more intimidating.

Hawke looked him up and down appraisingly. Apparently he didn’t own more than one set of clothes, but the ‘dangerous hobo’ vibe notwithstanding, he looked all right. A lot less like he was deliberately trying to melt into the scenery, and more importantly: _alive_. Not that she’d gone after him particularly hard - though admittedly much harder than she’d first intended - but still, it was gratifying to see someone standing after facing them in the ring. She smiled at him, receiving a curt but polite nod in response. “An apology?” She prompted.

Fenris raised his chin, as solemn as a gravestone. He seemed almost reluctant to continue, or as though he didn’t know how to _start._ Apparently he’d only got as far as recognizing an apology needed to take place (for what, she could hardly fathom) but the actual vocalization part seemed to have caught him up. No big deal; Hawke had a feeling that ‘trouble using his words’ was just a thing she’d have to get used to, where Fenris was involved.

“That _was_ a pretty sharp hit to the nose,” Hawke mused, cocking a lopsided grin. If he had trouble with talking, she wasn’t about to make it any easier for him. “Instead of apologizing, you could kiss it and make it better, hm?”

At first she thought he’d choked on air, but it soon became clear that she’d startled a laugh out of him. Immediately after, Fenris seemed confused and then irritated by having been tricked into finding something funny. He scowled. “That is… not…” he grunted out something that sounded like a curse, then he cleared his throat. “I underestimated you again. Out of spite. I just-”

 _‘Out of spite.’ That’s cute._ Hawke’s grin turned a shade closer to shit-eater. “You just want to be absolutely clear that you _did_ lose on purpose,” she interrupted, even as he was saying it. His scowl deepened.

“It... sounds more pompous when you say it like that,” he grumbled, hunching his shoulders.

“Considering it’s a pompous thing to say, that one’s on you _._ ” She leaned on her elbow, propping up her chin with her hand. “You should be apologizing for trying to knock me out halfway through round two instead. Did you get cold feet?”

“Absolutely not.” Fenris sat up straight again and made a meaningful gesture at the bartender, who nodded and pulled a wax-capped bottle and two shot glasses from underneath the bar. He watched the Bartender - Corff, if she recalled correctly - with an intense focus that said to Hawke ‘I am doing everything in my power to not look at you.’ Hawke kicked the leg of his stool to get his attention again. He frowned, glanced aside at her, and elaborated, “I was concerned. Your fighting style is... erratic.”

Hawke sat up, taken aback. _Erratic?_ “I was trying to make it an interesting fight!” She protested.

“You seemed less concerned with fighting than dancing. I thought you- ah, thank you,” he took two shots of something that looked like molten gold from the Bartender, then handed one to Hawke. “Here, take this. I thought you wanted an exhibition match, not,” he waved his free hand dismissively as she took the glass, “whatever _that_ was.”

“I thought you _didn’t_ want an exhibition match,” she countered. “If you wanted me to be serious, you should have said something.” Admittedly, her fighting style could be described as ‘Whatever Works Stir-Fry,’ but it served her well enough that no one had ever complained before. The opponents that lived, anyway. She peered at the shot glass in her hand. “What is this? Applejack?”

“Apple brandy,” he corrected, raising his glass. Hawke raised hers in turn, and they each downed their shot.

The liquor burned clean down the back of her throat and lingered like sweet fire when she breathed in. It tasted like liquid autumn, all nutmeg and cinnamon and apple and heady lingering flavors of oak and rye. The taste reminded her of late harvest afternoons in Lothering; of the weathered back porch and fiery leaves that echoed brilliant sunsets over the foothills. Something she’d never see again, most likely. She wondered if Fenris knew how much of a gift his apology really was.

Hawke felt a treacherous prickle behind her eyes. Instead of tears, she let out an appreciative cough and set the glass rim-down on the bar. “Apology accepted.”

Fenris stood abruptly, placing his own glass on the bar. “Then my business is concluded. Goodb-” He began to turn to leave, but Hawke’s foot shot out to hook around the leg of his stool, tripping him up to knock him right back into his seat. No way was she letting him get out of unintentionally compromising her emotions _that_ easily. The Scowl returned as he faced Hawke once more.

“Not so fast,” she said, ignoring his irritated look. At this point she was certain ‘irritated’ was his default anyway. “You and I still have some business to discuss!”

“I can hardly fathom what further _‘business’_ you intend to carry on,” he snapped.. Hawke blinked at him, taken aback. While irritation may have been his default mode, his response had surpassed ‘sharp’ and gone straight to ‘barbed and electrocuted razor wire,’ setting the few baby steps they’d made towards camaraderie abruptly back to zero. Which, unfortunately for Fenris, had probably the exact opposite effect than what he was going for. Hawke ignored his hostility, favoring him instead with a broad grin.

“Protection, remember? I’m sure I didn’t hit you so hard you’d forget our bargain.”

Fenris scoffed at her, but seemed to ease slightly. “I agreed to fight you, that is all.”

Hawke scoffed back at him mockingly. “You said, _and I quote,_ ‘Athenril, I agree to her terms.’ My terms as stated were that I would take Strand’s place _and_ his debt to you.”

He opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and then his scowl went from ‘unfriendly’ to ‘openly hostile and ready to shed blood.’ It took more willpower than Hawke was willing to admit to keep from flinching away from a look like that. “You tricked me.”

Hawke shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. To be fair it’s entirely for your benefit.”

“I struggle with your definition of ‘for my benefit,’” he growled, even sharper than before. Again, Hawke was caught somewhat off guard. Fenris seemed to be flipping back and forth between ‘hostile’ and ‘considering the concept of friendliness’ without much warning. Pretending she didn’t notice or care about his attitude likely wasn’t going to fly too much longer. She pasted a friendlier smile back on, and decided to urge the negotiations from a slightly different angle.

“Well, looking at it from a practical standpoint, you’ve effectively paid me for at least two years worth of service, conservatively speaking. I’m shit at math, so-”

“Seven hundred and ninety-seven days,” said Fenris. Hawke blinked, again caught off guard. He seemed to be considering something, and then nodded in apparent satisfaction. “Yes, about that.”

Hawke, who up to this point in her life hadn’t met another pit fighter that could count above ten without taking off their shoes, stared hard at Fenris, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “How do you figure?”

“The average salary for a personal bodyguard in Kirkwall is sixty-eight thousand, five hundred nine sovereign for a full year of service,” he said, as if that answered anything.

“Yeah?” Said Hawke, frantically trying to remember if calculating out the number he’d gotten would require subtraction or division. Or, Maker’s mercy, _both._ The specter of primary school math quiz papers covered in red marks crept insidiously into her mind.  “Is that so?”

Fenris leveled her with a flat, unimpressed stare that said ‘what are you, some kind of idiot?’ better than any collection of words ever could have. “Yes, that was effectively the negotiated price of employ Strand and I had agreed upon. With the winnings our fight brought in, which was one hundred forty-nine thousand, six hundred sixty-three and some negligible change, and counting for the subtraction of the visas, the entire pot would be equal to just short of eight hundred days of work. That is, if I were willing to hire.”

Hawke frowned. “Wait, that’s for the _entire_ pot. So if we split it in half…” She scratched the back of her head. Math had never been her strong point, but something seemed more off than just the numbers.

“We aren’t halving the pot, remember. If the terms were to be the same as my agreement with Strand, he was to take the winnings and in return use that as Bodyguard salary.”

“Yes, but you should at least get something out of this.”

“I was ostensibly getting a bodyguard, which was sufficient enough for my needs.”

Hawke frowned at him and crossed her arms. “Are you sure you’re not using number wizardry and tenpenny words to try and make me look stupid?”

“Are you sure I have to _try_?” Fenris asked, lifting one eyebrow with such precise sarcasm that Hawke very nearly punched him just on principal. She squinted at him instead, setting her face into a determined, if somewhat petulant, scowl.

“You were gonna pay some jackoff an average price for what I’m going to assume is a high-priority job,” she said. “How stupid does _that_ look?”

“It looks... like I got a bargain,” Fenris began, but the slightest bit of uncertainty had begun to creep into his voice. Hawke leaned in, latching onto the opening with a vice grip.

“Yeah, I bet it sounded like a bargain to _him_ when some feckless elven hobo walked up to him and said ‘hey pal, have I got a deal for you! Not only am I going to let you punch me senseless for glory and recognition, but I’ll pay you up front in full for two years and some change worth of protecting me from something that - and I’m just assuming here - probably has way more money than I do and will _pay dearly to know where I am._ ’”

Normally, Hawke got a petty thrill when shooting down someone’s idiot plans with a carefully pointed summary of how stupid said plan was. Normally, it ended with someone throwing a punch, and then a rousing fight, after which she, the clear victor, would explain why her plan was much better. But Fenris’ expression had gone from annoyed to angry to complete and utter blank in the space of seconds.

Annoyed and angry she could deal with. The blank, however, was troubling. She’d leaned in, but she sat back now, looking him straight on. The rest of the bar could have disappeared, for all either of them were concerned. Fenris’ blank mask stared back at her, but as carefully cultivated as it was, fury and terror practically radiated off him in waves.

She realized that he was trying to decide whether or not to kill her now. _Well, I suppose I’ll just have to sway that decision back in my favor._

She leveled him with a sharp, appraising stare.

“The upfront was his idea, wasn’t it,” she said, feeling a fury of her own beginning to boil. She knew how people like Strand thought; she lived that life and knew all the dark and cruel alleys a person could travel if they _really_ wanted to take advantage of someone. And as capable as Fenris seemed, there was also something about him that simply screamed ‘gullible.’ Or maybe he was just so desperate that any possible protection was better than facing whatever was coming after him alone. Whichever it was, she’d convinced herself that he didn’t deserve to be played like that, even if he did look like he was calculating the quickest way to behead her without getting caught on the way to the door. And besides: she still owed him.

Fenris didn’t need to reply; the reality of his situation had clearly dawned on him. She had no doubts he was smart enough to realize how thoroughly he’d been played by Strand, and how easily. How much he’d already lost, and how much he stood to lose.

“Maker,” said Hawke. “That son of a whore was going to take you for all you’re worth and then some.” Then she nodded once, firmly. “I am now more than ever convinced we should be _best_ friends.”

Hawke ignored the sudden shock on Fenris’ face, rapping her knuckles on the bar instead. “Hey, Corff, right? Corff, two Crowns on the rocks, please.” She turned to Fenris, giving him a wink. “Old tradition in my family.”

“I-” Fenris began, then changed his mind. “You-” didn’t seem right either. After a few more false starts he settled with _“What?”_

“Old family tradition: Whenever we start a friendship, a partnership or make a deal, Crown on the rocks.” She lifted her own glass in salute and took a drink. Fenris continued to stare. She smiled above the rim of her glass. “You’re confused.”

He glared. “Obviously.”

“You were thinking I was going to take up Strand’s obvious doublecross,” she continued, swirling the liquor around in the glass. She didn’t particularly _enjoy_ Crown Royale, but it reminded her of her father, and she liked the idea of sharing a tradition of his. And of tipping Fenris off balance; it was starting to become kind of _fun_ , aside from the unfortunate nature of their conversation.

“The thought did cross my mind…” Fenris admitted, still staring intently at her. He hadn’t taken a drink yet. “Clearly the idea is not alien to you.”

“I know how assholes like Strand think, which informs my own thought process.” She chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her lip. “How much did you tell him about your situation? Not a lot, I presume, for safety’s sake.”

“Very little,” said Fenris, setting down the glass. “What are you playing at, Hawke?”

“I’m trying to figure out if he’s the kind of guy to go for petty revenge in an alley or if he has the knowledge and resources to be a real threat. If it’s the former, we can take him no problem. I mean, the two of us?” She scoffed at the very thought of a scrub like Strand being able to stand against either of them, much less both at once. “We’d feed him his teeth in ten seconds flat. But the way you talk about him it sounds like he might have a bit more pull in this town than I’m used to dealing with.”

“He’s dangerous. I chose his services for a reason.”

“Not just because he was running cheap?” Hawke smirked. “You could have gone to Varric. He’s got connections and he’s good company.”

“I do not deal with Tethras. He’s…” Fenris frowned, ducking his head. “Nosy. Especially for a Dwarf.”

“As bad as me?”

" _Nothing_ is as bad as you,” Fenris groaned, and then clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed.

Hawke stifled a laugh, but something bothered her about this. “You don’t deal with Varric at all?”

“I have never had cause.”

“Then how did you get the total of my take from the fight? He only released the numbers for the bet payouts.”

Fenris stared at Hawke, who stared back expectantly. The staring contest went on for a full twenty seconds, then his gaze transferred to just over her shoulder. He frowned. Hawke turned to look, expecting to see someone at the Hanged Man’s door, and saw…

Nothing. She turned back to Fenris and-

Also saw nothing. He was gone. She stared at his empty seat, and at the glass of Crown on the bar, still full nearly to the brim with liquor and ice. Next to it were a few silver pieces. She leaned over the bar, just to check and see if he’d leaped over to try and hide from her there, but there was no sign of him.

“Huh,” she said, taking another sip from her own glass. She glanced over at Corff, who was busily polishing the same three square inches of counter that he’d been working on since she came in. “Hey Corff, I didn’t just hallucinate an entire conversation, did I?”

“What, you mean the spooky Elf with the spikes on? No, he was real. He comes in here sometimes for that brandy.” he stepped over to take the silver that had been left next to Fenris’ glass. “Good tipper, that one.”

Hawke nodded distractedly, looking around the taproom. _No wonder he’s called the Ghost,_ she mused. _The man vanishes like a wraith at the first opportunity._ She sighed, giving the room another scan. No sign of him.

Well, she supposed there was precious little she could do about it now. She considered taking the leftover drink for herself, but the shot Fenris had given her had already melted right in, and on a mostly empty stomach she didn’t want to push her luck _too_ far. Besides, it wouldn’t be too much longer before Varric arrived.

An hour and a half later, she was seriously regretting not taking that second drink. At least being drunk would have taken the edge off of waiting. If nothing else, it would have eased the humiliation of having to endure her mother calling the bar _twice_ to see where she was. Each conversation had been the same, too. No, she wasn’t sure how much longer it would be, No, she hadn’t seen either Carver or Gamlen come in, _No_ , she hadn’t been harassed by anyone and was afraid to walk home alone. After each call Corff had given her a sympathetic smile, and even had the kindness of heart to order her something from the kitchen while she waited. She’d spent a good chunk of time moving the dregs of some gamey beef stew around from one side of the bowl to the other before her patience started to wear dangerously thin.

She was debating with herself the merits and flaws of storming into the back office with its polished nameplate and _breaking_ shit until somebody explained just why a lovely and upstanding gentleman like Varric would stand her up on this, their second date ever, where she was set to receive from him a whole fuckload of money.

Varric seemed to ride in on the tail of that thought, coming through the bar door with the look of a man standing down a hurricane.

Dread, which had been patiently waiting for its cue, began to creep into Hawke’s veins like drops of ink in a glass of water. She stood as Varric approached her. She didn’t need magic to know what he was going to say next, with a look like that on his face.

“Hawke… I have some bad news.”

 

- 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if you hadn’t already noticed
> 
> This is still happening
> 
> Please note a few new tags. What does ‘stealth Exalted au’ mean? It means that there will be metric assloads of pure fuckery in the future. Considering this fic is already set in a magitech 80s alternate timeline I’m pretty sure you’re already on board for this mess, but when I say this is going to surpass the hypothetical lovechild of all your favorite completely batshit 80s entertainment in bizarreness quotients I am not fucking around.
> 
> Yes, JAWS is a universal constant. Just like Ghostbusters and John Cusack.
> 
> Yes I am pretty sure the Math is right, I had my girlfriend check it and everything.
> 
> The bit with the scratchoffs is based on a true story.
> 
> See probably soon, maybe! If you don’t want to wait, I sometimes put doodles and extra content on my tumblr, http://fawxdraws.tumblr.com
> 
> ETA* Initially had Ignacio Strand as Ignacio Sharp, typos should all be fixed.


	9. The Bad Idea

The Bad Idea

 

-1-

 

Hawke felt the familiar slick crawl of anxiety knot itself against the sides of her stomach. She’d been riding high on her successes of the last day, forgetting for just a moment that what goes up must come down, and for her the comedowns were always a hard crash. 

“Is this the kind of bad news I have to sit down for?” She asked, hoping that maybe Varric just had one of those faces that made every expression seem ten times as intense as it was meant to be.

“Let’s go back to my office,” Varric replied, gesturing for her to follow.

“Oh, it’s  _ that _ kind of Bad News,” she said, rubbing her face as she fell in step with him as her last small hope crashed and burned. “Varric, you won’t think less of me if I just crawl under a table and die of my own volition, would you?”

He let out a strained laugh. “At this point? Not in the slightest.” He opened to door to the office, guiding her inside before closing and locking it behind him. “You are an absolute  _ magnet _ for trouble, did you know that?”

“I’m starting to kind of realize that’s a thing, yes,” she said, taking a seat on an uncomfortable stool. Varric made a scolding face, flapping his arms at her. 

“Get off that rickety old thing, go sit in the recliner! Andraste’s  _ tits _ , you look like you’re going to fall over. Did you get any sleep?”

“It’s a bad idea to sleep with a concussion,” Hawke replied, yawning behind her hand. She sank into one of the overstuffed chairs gratefully as Varric slid to the curio behind his desk and retrieved a half-empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses. She eyed the bottle warily. “Is the news  _ that _ bad?”

“Worse than you think. What do you know about the Ghost’s situation?” Varric asked as he poured generously for them. 

Hawke immediately felt even more on edge. ‘Bad News’ pertaining directly to her situation was worrying enough, but hearing someone lead with ‘you know that other guy who has it just as bad if not worse than you’ in relation to her own problems did not engender a feeling of well-being or confidence that the next 24 hours would be anything but a living hell. She chewed her lip as she thought, running down the mental list of what she knew about Fenris and what she didn’t. What she knew was a distressingly short list of details that all pointed at one very unhappy possibility. 

“Judging by how generous you’re being with that bottle, I expect you’re going to tell me he’s being chased down by Tevinter Bloodhounds.”

Varric’s hand went still, then he set the bottle aside. “Did he tell you that?”

“Not directly. But he’s got the accent, and he’s an Elf, and he’s on the run from something he doesn’t think he can take on himself, so I figured it’s either Bloodhounds or he pissed off an actual Magister, but the odds of  _ that  _ happening are slim to-” Hawke’s voice trailed off as Varric reached for the bottle and put one more generous dollop into her glass.

Hawke looked from the glass to Varric, managing somehow to keep her expression completely neutral. “Please tell me you did that as a joke.”

Varric took a breath, and then said in the most apologetic voice he could manage: “The Magister’s name is Danarius.”

“I’ll just take that thanks,” said Hawke, grabbing the glass and slamming down the triple shot like it had personally insulted her. It burned like a hot iron ball and she gasped, gallantly forcing herself not to break down into a fit of coughing. “Strong stuff,” she wheezed, a tear squeezing out of her eye. She let out one dainty cough before handing Varric the glass back. “He’s got an  _ actual  _ Magister on his ass. Named… what was it again?”

“Danarius.”

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” she sighed, crossing her arms over her eyes. “No  _ wonder _ he’s so desperate for help.”

“The Ghost didn’t tell you anything?”

“Not in any straightforward manner. He doesn’t trust me, not that I blame him,” she muttered, pushing herself up from a slouch. She needed to wake up a little, and all that liquor was not going to help. “This sucks.”

Varric nodded and stood, taking his glass and the bottle with him as he traveled back behind his desk. Hawke noticed an espresso machine built into polished walnut curio that housed the glasses, more liquor, and presumably enough coffee to supply a steadily busy office. He set the scotch back on its shelf and closed the curio. Hawke realized she’d been staring at the espresso machine like a penitent worshipper gazing upon the visage of a stern god: hoping for relief they knew they didn’t really deserve and probably didn’t truly  _ want _ to begin with. 

“Hawke?” Varric asked, waving a hand in her field of vision. She startled a little, sitting up further in her seat. 

A handful of sad, wistful memories of a comfortable bed passed through her thoughts before she asked, “could I bother you for some coffee?”

Varric paused. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“The alcohol was less of a good idea considering what we’re about to discuss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you did it on purpose,” she said, realizing that had indeed been his intent even as she said it. Varric had the decency to look guilty. She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me you thought I was just going to go cheerily home to bed after you gave me all the bad news.”

“Kind of? Yes, actually.” Varric took a seat behind his desk and pulled the phone closer to himself. He tapped on the receiver a few seconds, stalling. “I have more bad news, but it can probably wait til tomorrow. You actually look like you’re going to die in that chair.”

“I feel fine, I just need a pick-me-up,” Hawke protested, though she made no effort to move again. It was a  _ really _ comfy chair, and honestly if it was the last chair she ever sat in, at this point she’d feel honored to die in something so nice, if it weren’t for the cleaning bill Varric would have to deal with. “At least tell me the rest of what’s going on with Magister Dickwhatever.”

“He’s in Hightown, and my sources say he’s been throwing out feelers all over the city. He’s not being too subtle about who he’s looking for, but he’s also being polite, playing it by the book. And after last night, your name’s been tossed around as a potential contact.” Varric said, his voice somber. “This is looking like a really seriously bad situation, Hawke.”

“Was he at the fight then? Or is he just sniffing around?”

Varric let out a sardonic chuckle. “High-class Vints generally wouldn’t be caught dead at a dive like the Hornet’s Nest. He probably sent one of his people to check it out.”

She nodded, leaning her chin on her hand. “What are the odds of him approaching me, do you think?”

“Strong, if he can’t get leads anywhere else, which is pretty likely. They don’t call the elf ‘Ghost’ for nothing. Athenril is loyal enough to her people not to squeal under normal circumstances, though with a Magister in the mix, who knows.” Varric pulled out his little pocket notebook, checking a page before sliding it back in place. “He’s not officially offering a local bounty but there is apparently one active contract.”

“I’ll bet you five Sovereigns that contract is owned by Ignacio Strand, and the ink is still fresh.”

“You know, it’s kind of unsettling how quickly you’re putting all this together,” said Varric, his voice neutral.

“It’s kind of unsettling how unsurprised you are that I am,” Hawke countered. “But I suppose you somehow found the time to pull receipts on me.”

Varric nodded. “I called up a contact in Redcliffe. I wanted to see if the little I’ve heard about you thus far was true.”

Hawke felt another lump of anxiety drop into her stomach. “I can’t imagine that was fun to research,” she said, slouching again.

Varric held up his hands. “I won’t push. I am curious to hear your side of things, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Like Strand, for example. And Friedrich, I suppose.”   
  
“Like them, yes.” Varric sighed.

“And you wanted me to go home and sleep on this? That’s a lovely little fiction you’re writing in your head Varric, but that just isn’t going to fly.” Hawke snorted, planting her hands on the arms of the big chair. The statement would have been far more impressive if she could force her body to stand up but… Maker, chairs weren’t ever meant to  _ be _ this comfortable.

She clenched her jaw, glaring at nothing in particular as she tapped her fingers against the armrests in annoyance. Varric didn’t even try to smother his laugh. 

“How ya doing over there?” He asked, pulling a water bottle from the curio. He tossed it over; Hawke caught it easily.

“I’m not a damned invalid or anything, I’m just really fuckin’ tired,” she groused, twisting open the bottle cap to take a heavy swig. She pointed at him severely. “And that was strong whiskey you gave me, you wicked bastard!”

“Yeah, well, you seem like the type of person that would go running off without backup, so I’m taking you home, then I’ll fill your mother in on what’s happened. I’ve got some calls to make,” he said, tapping the phone receiver next to him. “I’m going to get some of my people watching your Uncle’s place, and people keeping an ear to the ground in case this Magister makes a move. So far he’s being civil, and I want it to stay that way.”

“At least fill me in on the rest of this nonsense before you go tattling to Mother,” Hawke pleaded, slouching further in her seat. “We can pretend it’s storytime, and you’re weaving me nice little nightmares to send me off to the Fade.”

“If you insist, though the rest of the bad news is what you’d pretty much expect.” Varric sighed, leaning back in his seat as he tallied off the issues. “Meeran says he won’t hold a grudge as long as Friedrich ends up dead. Those were his terms and he’s sticking to them. Friedrich of course is holed up somewhere with Ignacio Strand and the take from last night’s fight, as well as some extra cash that was being transported with it.”

Hawke sucked in a breath. “Ooh, he hit a runner? No wonder everyone hates his ass.”

“Yeah, he’s got a history of pulling stupid stunts like that. Congratulations, you’re on the wrong side of two of the most loathed men in Kirkwall. Either way, Strand has pledged himself to bodyguard Friedrich  _ specifically _ to spite you-”

“To the surprise of fucking nobody.”

Varric chuckled before continuing on. “They’re holed up in the Alienage right now. They haven’t made any big moves; there are no ships going in or out of Kirkwall until the end of the week, and everything except for personal and military aircraft is basically grounded as of- oh give or take ten days ago.”

“He won’t drive out of the city?”

Varric shook his head, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. “It’s a little complicated to explain right now, but the roads in Kirkwall are treacherous if you aren’t well-liked or a particularly aggressive driver, and there are only two roads out of the city. Friedrich isn’t well liked and while Strand’s gang is sizable, but they don’t have any road credibility.” 

“You have complicated road etiquette here or something?” Hawke blinked. 

“Or something. Kirkwall’s a city built on slavery and bloodsport, Hawke. Some things never go away, and blood is always big business here, one way or another.”

“You should write tourism pamphlets,” said Hawke, mystified. She took another swig of water as she meditated on what kind of bizarre culture she’d only just barely brushed knuckles with. “What about the Visas?”

“Ah,” Varric smiled, reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a small stack of four cards, spreading them on the table. “We’ll have to get photos of you all to stick on there and then get them laminated, but as far as Kirkwall is concerned, you are now a legal refugee.”

Hawke reached out and pulled one card - Aveline’s - from the pile. She turned it over in her hands, examining it closely. “This is good work,” she said, running her thumbs along the sides of the card. “Especially for last-minute forgeries.”

Varric beamed at her. “They’re temporary until we can get your official documentation, but with these you won’t have to worry about being pulled off the street.”

Hawke looked over at Varric, eyebrows raised. “Do I want to know how common that is?”

“No, but you’ll likely see for yourself soon enough. The alternative is being effectively under house arrest until the paperwork comes through. You don’t exactly pass for a Kirkwaller, and, well…”

“I get it.” Hawke folded her arms over her eyes and let out a huge, unhappy sigh. “I’ve always been terrible at being inconspicuous.”

“Lucky for you, I don’t mind playing chauffeur.” Varric stood, raising a hand to stop Hawke as she moved to do the same. “How close do you think you are to falling asleep?”

“Not very,” she lied, knowing full well if she closed her eyes for more than five seconds she’d be out cold. But Varric was nearly as stubborn as she, and they both knew it. “I’m closer to starving than passing out,” she added.

Varric pursed his lips into a frown, considering the top of his desk, arms crossed. He looked up at Hawke with an expression that made it very clear that he didn’t believe her, and he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until he was sure she’d been delivered home safely. It was equal parts endearing and irritating; she wasn’t unused to people being protective of her, not by a long shot. But it had been years since she’d needed anyone’s protection, and with the exception of a few (hundred) near-death experiences, she’d been doing just fine without anyone’s help.

_ Oh, flames. I can’t even competently lie to myself at this point, _ she realized grumpily. She was  _ tired. _ Tired enough to sleep, tired enough that getting out of the comfy chair was just too much of an effort to put forth, in spite of how much still needed to be done. Tired enough to tell her ego to shut up and sit down for once.

Hawke gave in. “Let’s go,” she said, pushing herself up to stand. “D’you mind swinging by a food stand or something?”

Varric’s worried expression finally eased. “Sure thing,” he said, the relief in his voice poking at the sore spot that was her guilty conscience. Hawke followed him to the car, keeping her head down.

They stopped at a covered kebab cart on the way back to Gamlen’s. Hawke ate without really tasting, knowing only that if she thought about it hard enough she’d understand that it was pretty damn good street food. When Varric pulled up in front of the house, Hawke blearily greeted Leandra, who had been lingering on the front porch, arms crossed, one of Malcolm’s old sweaters around her shoulders. She’d held her ground long enough for Hawke to make it to the door, then broke down and folded her daughter up into a relieved, weary hug. 

She didn’t remember the walk to the bedroom, or even laying down; just the long dark of a dreamless slumber.

 

-2-

 

Hawke woke slowly, dragging herself out of sleep by sheer force of will. At some point in the night, Redd had climbed in with and then flopped on top of her, his big hairy bulk rumbling softly with deep doggy snores. In the distance, a lawnmower groaned over someone’s patchy lawn. Hawke yawned, stretched, and then wriggled out from underneath the dog, who grunted and rolled over, unperturbed. 

She took stock of herself, frowning. She’d slept in yesterday’s clothes, which wasn’t so much of an issue considering nothing she owned had seen a laundry day in a month. Gamlen didn’t own a washer or dryer, but he’d mentioned a laundromat down the street, closer to the Alienage. 

“Redd, you wanna go outside?” She said aloud, opening the bedroom door as she did. The Mabari scrambled from his spot and launched out the door before she’d even finished, barrelling out into the kitchen with a clatter. She followed and opened the kitchen door, yawning as she watched him bound around the sandy gravel pit of a yard. 

She glanced at the stove clock, but it only blinked 12:00 back at her. She went into the living room to search for another. 

Carver was asleep on one couch, Gamlen had the chair, beer in one hand, TV remote in the other. He raised his chin at her as she entered. A studio audience laughed hysterically at whatever had happened onscreen. 

“What day and or time is it?” She asked, kneeling next to the couch. Their bags were still stacked next to it, Bethany’s tucked away at the very bottom. 

“Wednesday, noon. You didn’t sleep  _ that _ long,” said Gamlen. He scratched at his chin with the remote, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “What’re you doing?”

“I need a clean shirt,” she said, lifting Bethany’s pack out of the pile. She hadn’t gone into it since… then. Even with her fingers clasped around the bag’s zipper she hesitated. Before she could go on, a couch pillow hit her square in the face.

“What!!” She rocked back on her heels, flailing for balance. Carver leaped from the couch, snatching the bag out of her arms.

“That’s not yours!” He snapped, clutching it to his chest. Hawke stared at him wide-eyed from her crouch. 

“Carver, I need something clean to wear,” she said, holding up her hands. “I’ll-”

“You’ll ruin it with your huge gross arms,” he growled, his arms tightening around the bag. He sat down again on the couch, as far from her as he could get. 

“...Okay, that’s a great point, but I still need a shirt,” she said calmly, looking over to Gamlen. “D’you have a flannel I could wear or something?”

Gamlen took a sip of his beer, regarding her over the top of the can. “You gonna ruin it with your huge gross arms?”

She held out her arms, flexing them critically. To be fair, she’d shrunk rather significantly over the last month. She shrugged. “Your other option includes explaining to Mom and Aveline why I’m walking around topless.”

“Ugh, no!” Carver shouted, jumping back up to his feet. “Fuck off, I’m leaving!”

“Or you could just give me a shirt-” she started, but Carver beat a hasty retreat for the door, slamming it behind him. “-Okay.”

Gamlen jerked his thumb at his bedroom door. “Clean shirts in the closet. You planning on doing laundry?”

“Yeah, might as well,” she said with a shrug. “You got anything you need done?”

“Whatever’s on the floor,” he said as she passed.

She stopped at the entrance to his bedroom, staring at the interior. Two or three button-up shirts hung askew in the open closet. The floor was littered with the rest of Gamlen’s wardrobe, but for a cleared path from door to bed. Hawke shook her head and picked her way over to the closet, snatching a grey flannel shirt off its hanger. She slipped out of her own shirt and into the new one with an appreciative sigh. It might not have been much, but it was better than nothing. 

She scooped up random articles of clothing as she made her way back out. “Got a hamper?” She asked Gamlen, who gave her a flat look that was so reminiscent of Carver she felt almost as if she’d glimpsed into some dark future timeline. She revised the question. “Got any garbage bags?”

“Under the sink in the kitchen,” said Gamlen, taking a noisy sip from his beer. 

“Thanks,” she replied, dropping the pile of his clothes on the couch before heading to the kitchen. “Fair warning, by the way, I’m keeping any money I find in your pockets.” She smiled to herself as Gamlen hauled up out of his chair to rifle through the laundry pile for any loose change.

Hawke paused in the kitchen, glancing out the screen door to the sandy yard. Carver was out there still, squatted against the dilapidated van with Bethany’s bag sandwiched between his chest and his knees. He had both hands on Redd, vigorously petting the Mabari’s big, soft face. 

“Cubby,” she called, grinning when Carver’s nose wrinkled in annoyance at the nickname. “I’m gonna take essentials to the laundromat. You mind keeping an eye on Redd while I’m gone?”

He grunted affirmation, not bothering to look at her, petting Redd with even more focus and vigor. It was a satisfactory enough response. Hawke went back to her task.

 

-3-

 

The Laundromat was a squat little first-floor cubicle with little going for it outside of the pure utility required. A few plastic ferns filled part of the window, the rest dominated by the ‘OPEN,’ ‘24 HRS,’ and ‘USE AT YOUR OWN RISK’ signs suctioned to the glass. The janitor’s closet had no door, and half of the scoop-seat plastic chairs screwed to the one bare wall had been broken in some manner or fashion. From the window she could see the street that led down into the Alienage and a few jutting branches of the  _ Vhenadal _ that grew there. Next door a meagerly decorated cafe blasted loud, staticky Antivan dance music that mingled with the smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread. 

Hawke swayed along with the music as she sorted and stuffed the laundry into two of the big 50 gallon washers, turning out pockets (finding 10 coppers, a dime bag that had been stuffed into one of Gamlen’s socks, and one lonely cigarette in a pack she’d thought had been empty) and scrubbing worst stains with liquid cleaner bought from the laundromat’s meager vending machine. The cigarette she clenched between her teeth, promising herself the nicotine as a reward.

She finished filling the washers and set them to work. Then she patted down her pockets, searching for a lighter, coming up with nothing but change for the laundry and pocket lint. Her last working lighter had likely been dropped in the back of the van somewhere. 

Hawke glared at the unlit cigarette for a few seconds while she considered her options. The laundromat itself was empty, and the street had seemed mostly deserted. Even so, she cautiously crept to the entrance, peeking out onto the street to make sure nobody was coming. There were people around, but nobody looked like they were on their way to wash a load. 

She slipped back in, glancing at the corners of the room. There was a security camera pointed at the room at large, but it was clearly fake. Another (real) one was perched at the entrance, angled to catch the door, the coin changer, and not much else. 

Confident in her privacy, she raised her hands to cup them around the end of the cigarette, tugging at her magic to form just enough of a spark to light the tip. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice directly behind her. Hawke let out a yelp and  _ jumped _ , cigarette flying out of her hand as she spun a full hundred and eighty degrees to land with her fists up, ready to pummel whoever had startled her. Then she registered who it was.

Fenris leaned against the bank of washers with his arms crossed, regarding her with the customary flat look of disapproval. 

“Sweet  _ fucking _ Andraste!” She snapped, taking a step back from him. “You scared the  _ crap _ out of me! Where did you come from?” She glanced behind him for the door he’d come through, but there was none. The laundromat was basically a cubbyhole with just one door and a bank of windows keeping it from being a stifling little box. She looked at Fenris, the door, the back of the laundromat, then back to Fenris. 

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, seriously. Where  _ did _ you come from?”

Fenris tilted his head slightly. “You are a Mage. Is it not obvious to you?”

Hawke tensed, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder for eavesdroppers. “My training isn’t exactly orthodox,” she said, leaning her hip against the washing machines. She crossed her arms, looking him dead in the eyes. “When did you find out? Just now?”

He stared back, clearly fighting an urge to look away. “At the Hornet’s Nest. After the fight.”

She blinked, wracking her brain for what he could possibly have seen. The only time she’d used magic was in the cafeteria, and they’d been completely alone. She hadn’t even seen him until the next day.

_ Wait a minute. He knew about the take from the fight too, and the only time that was ever discussed was when we were in the cafeteria. If he found out then, he’d have to have been- _

Realization dawned on Hawke like the first rays of light after the longest night of the year.  Or perhaps more accurately, a glimmer of light in the corner of her eye. She squinted accusingly at him. 

“ _ You... _ were eavesdropping on us. Hey, you’re not on the run because someone caught you invisi-peeping, are you?” She accused. It was worth seeing Fenris’ expression go from mildly smug to flustered embarrassment.

“Absolutely not!” He snapped, arms winding even more tightly over his chest. “I never-” he started to try and defend himself, saw the encouraging, anticipatory look on her face, and stopped, glaring again. “Why must you always attempt to derail  _ every _ conversation with useless details?”

“Because it amuses me, why else?” she grinned, shrugging. 

“How like a Mage,” Fenris muttered, “I should have guessed sooner what you were, considering.”

“Funny, it generally comes as an absolute shock to other people.”

“Why, because you’ve electrocuted them?”

Hawke barked out a laugh, the pun catching her off guard. “Hah! It’s funny ‘cus it’s true. Anyway, what do you want?”

Fenris went silent again. Hawke waited, glancing around the laundromat for her lost cigarette. There it was, rolled under the scoop chairs. She went for it, letting Fenris gather his thoughts.

“I’ve reconsidered,” he said finally. Hawke raised an eyebrow. After a beat, he continued. “Working with you, I mean. After some thought I’ve come to the conclusion it may be-”

“So you know Dickanus is in town and looking for you, and you want my help,” she interrupted, taking a seat in one of the broken chairs. Fenris sputtered to a halt, staring at her. He seemed to not know if he should laugh or be enraged.

“That… is not his name,” he managed.

She shrugged. “So? What, is it gonna hurt his feelings or something? Do I give a shit? Do  _ you _ give a shit?”

Fenris didn’t move, but the subtle play of expressions made it clear he was wrestling with himself on that very subject. Hawke felt another little drop of fury fall into the already substantial rage pit she had set aside on the Magister’s behalf.

_ Oh no, did that monster make you care about him? _

“N-no,” he answered finally, and then again, with more conviction. “No, I don’t. Call him what you wish.”

“I’m gonna abuse that privilege, just so you’re aware. Have any of his people found you yet?”

“Two, about twenty minutes ago. I disposed of them.”   
  
“Just two?”

“Scouts. They didn’t realize I’d spotted them, but they’ll be missed within the hour.”

Hawke drummed her fingers on her thigh, frowning. “He’s got some kind of protocol for this?”

“There’s a general procedure, yes. He has substantial resources.”

‘Substantial’ in regards to a Tevinter Magister seemed like a gross understatement. If he was willing to personally travel out of Tevinter to oversee reclamation of a  _ single _ asset, chances were those ‘substantial resources’ amounted to no less than a personal army. Hawke knew in the pit of her heart that the thought of facing down a Tevine Bloodhound Corps shouldn’t have filled her with anticipatory glee, but she couldn’t help it. After the mindless evil of the Darkspawn and the stupid pettiness of street thugs, beating the shit out a bunch of bastard slavers sounded like a damn good time.

She realized a manic grin had spread on her face. Fenris was staring at her with some concern.

“Hawke…” 

Hawke snorted at him and lit her cigarette with a single spark of magic. “What? Why am I seemingly the only person in this room excited about the prospect of killing more Slavers?”

Fenris’ face went from concerned to straight mortified. She realized too late he wasn’t looking at her, but at the door.

Hawke turned slowly to see a squat, tired-looking Elvehn woman standing in the laundromat doorway, an overstuffed hamper under one arm, handle of detergent clutched in her other hand. 

The woman stared. Hawke and Fenris stared back, Hawke’s hand still hovering noticeably empty at the end of her lit cigarette. The woman’s gaze went from Hawke’s hand, to Hawke’s face, to Fenris, and then back to Hawke. 

“You killin’ Slavers?” The woman’s question sounded more like a demand, as if to say they better not be joking about doing good work that was much needed. 

Hawke nodded firmly. “Yes Messere, as a matter of fact.”

The woman nodded, setting her load on the machine next to Hawke’s. “Well that isn’t any of my business,” she said, satisfied.

Hawke sent up a brief thanks to the Maker that she’d already been sitting down, otherwise her knees would have given out. She reached into her shirt, tugging a few high bills from the wad still stashed away in her bra.

“Messere?” Hawke stood in the most polite possible way, stepping to the woman’s side. The woman raised an eyebrow at her. “If you wouldn’t mind too terribly, my friend and I have some business we need to take care of. I’d be happy to cover the cost of your load if you would kindly switch mine to the dryer when it’s done?” She discreetly slid the bills over, which the woman palmed with a faint nod.

“Of course. You be careful.”

“Yes Messere,” said Hawke, gesturing for Fenris to follow her out the door. They exited swiftly.

Hawke forced herself not to run as they hit the street, Fenris hot on her heels. Her heart was pounding in terrified excitement.

“ _ Hawke,” _ Fenris’ said urgently, grabbing the back of her shirt. 

“I know, I know, just be cool, keep walking, be cool,” she muttered, power-smoking the cigarette as they fled the scene.They rounded the corner down towards the Alienage then ducked again into a short side-alley. Hawke turned and put her arm against the wall, staring at the ground as she tried to process the last few moments, venting out a cloud of smoke.

“Hawke if that woman says something-” Fenris began. Hawke waved her free hand at him, shaking her head. This time, however, he didn’t stop. He paced in short, agitated circles, eyes on the alley entrance. “ _ Venhedis,  _ were you a simpleton  _ before _ we got in the ring or is this a new development?”

“I know, oh Maker, I’m such a fucking moron,” Hawke groaned, butting her head against the wall. “Fuckin’ flames.” She turned her head to look at Fenris, meaning to apologize, but something else caught her eye.

From this vantage she could see clearly into the Alienage; a good portion of the square with its old gnarled  _ Vhenadal _ was visible, and just passing behind the trunk of the tree… her good friend Ignacio Strand. She stood up straight, took one last drag, then crept to the end of the alley to peer out at him. Fenris halted his pacing, glaring at her exasperatedly.

“What. Hawke? What are you doing?”

“It’s Strand,” she pointed. Fenris scowled as they watched Strand duck into a dilapidated house across the square. “Well well well. Now we know where he's hiding out. Not too discreet, if you ask me."

“We should move on,” Fenris murmured. Hawke shook her head.

“No, he’s hunting you. We need to take him out now.”

“Is he? Since when?”

“As recently as last night, so Varric says. We really should-” She started forward, but Fenris grabbed the back of her shirt again, stopping her in her tracks. 

“ _ No, _ Hawke. We know nothing about this situation. I’m not running in blind, with no backup, against a desperate criminal.”

Hawke pursed her lips, puffing out her cheeks in annoyance, but backed down. Varric and Aveline would probably be disappointed if she initiated murder without permission anyway. “Okay, fine. At least we know where he is. That just leaves whatshisface and Friedrich.”

“Why Friedrich?”

“He had the courier moving all our winnings assassinated and is trying to skip town with the take, as of last night.”

“So much for your groceries,” Fenris said, not without sympathy.

“Don’t remind me,” she whined, remembering she had - yet again - forgotten to nab something for breakfast. She sighed, sliding back into the alley. There was a sewer cap not too far in. She nudged at it with her boot. “Do you know how to get to the Hanged Man from here through Darktown?”

“I can get us there.”

They crouched together to lift the cap. Hawke kept her gaze on the alley - and the Alienage beyond - as Fenris descended ahead of her. There was no further sign of Strand, or any of his people. Just a few Elves, going about their daily tasks.

“Hawke?” Fenris’ voice called to her from the dark. She turned and began her descent.

 

-4-

 

“I’ve got to admit, I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Varric, pouring himself a drink from his curio. “Can I get you anything?”

“No thank you, Varric, I’m fine.” Aveline sat at the edge of the same chair Hawke had occupied the previous night, back straight, hands folded in her lap. She looked uncomfortable, but still in a good mood.

“I take it your interview went well?” He asked innocently, not daring to look at her just yet.

“You’re not fooling me, Messere Tethras,” she said archly, folding her arms. “The recruiter was expecting me.”

Varric turned, raising his hands in supplication. “Look, all I did was tell them your name. They have a decent database, you have a sterling military career; I really didn’t have to do anything.”

Aveline didn’t frown, nor did she smile, but he did notice the slight elevation of her chin. Well, she deserved a little pride. He’d seen her record; it spoke for itself.

“I would have liked to present myself on my own terms,” she said finally, “but I do appreciate you expediting the process.”

Varric took his seat, smiling beatifically back at Aveline. “Did you come by just to say so?”

“Partially. I also wanted to ask what you plan on doing with Hawke, now that she’s indefinitely indebted to you by way of loyalty.”

Varric froze where he sat for only a moment, but Aveline’s bluntness had definitely blindsided him. “Wow, you just come right out swinging.”

“I’m known for battle strategy, not interrogative technique,” she said simply. “I’m concerned, Varric.”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I’ll do you the same courtesy by being blunt. I’ve been scouting able-bodied Fereldens with experience fighting Darkspawn to recruit for an expedition into the Deep Roads.”

Aveline’s expression didn’t change a single iota. “Are you completely insane.”

“It wouldn’t be right now, it would be… you know, after all this is taken care of. It’s a future venture; I’m just trying to cultivate a good potential group of people to offer the job to.”

“You don’t plan to indenture anyone to the project?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, perhaps a little more sharply than he meant to. That seemed to satisfy Aveline.

“All right, I suppose that’s reasonable. After all, it could be years before the Blight ends.” She frowned. “Ugh, not precisely a positive thought in any light, is it.”

“No, not really. Either way, there’s likely going to be plenty of time for Hawke to settle down and stay out of trouble.”

At that moment, the door to his office burst open, Hawke strolling in with a cheeky grin on her face, Fenris in tow. 

“Hey Varric, Hi Aveline. Who wants to help us kill some slavers?”

 

-

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha i said i'd keep working on this and i will and NONE OF YOU CAN STOP ME especially not you, crippling anxiety! BITCH!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm glad you've made it this far.  
> Undefeated started out as a funky little writing experiment that has swiftly spiraled out of my ability or willingness to stop. The basic skeleton of the Dragon Age 2 storyline remains, but with some changes - a few slight, a few significant. Same house, different furniture, that kind of thing. If you dig it, let me know! If you hate it, let me know! This is all for laughs, except for the parts where I get to drink your tears.


End file.
